For 30 Years, I Believed My 17-Year-Old First Love Died in a Lake Cabin Fire—Then a Scar on My New Neighbor’s Arm Made Me Say His Name

“She doesn’t have everything,” I said. “She doesn’t have the truth. And she doesn’t have us working together. Gabe, you’re not Elias. You’re Gabriel. Stop letting her decide who you are.”

I looked at the taut, burned skin on his forearm.

“Then let’s fight. Together.”

“She threatened your father. She threatened you. If we go after her —”

“I’m not afraid of your mother, Gabe. Not anymore,” I met his eyes. “And you shouldn’t be, either. I’m here now.”

For the first time since he walked back into my life, I saw the boy I remembered.

“What do we do?” he asked.