I was rounding up our herd, barely keeping track of who needed lunch money or clean socks, when I opened the front door—and my brain simply…stopped.

There was Jack. Or rather, there was a statue of Jack. A perfect, white, life-sized replica—every detail painstakingly preserved. The scar on his chin. The slope of his shoulders. The expression he wears when he’s pretending he’s fine but isn’t.

The kids froze. Ellie whispered, “Is that… Dad?” like we’d stepped into a dream or a horror movie.

Jack appeared behind us. And when he saw the sculpture, he didn’t ask why or how. He turned white. Then he dragged it inside, said nothing, and told me to take the kids to school. His