I thought I knew what was happening inside my own house. I thought I understood my marriage, my family, and the people I lived with. But the night I found my pregnant daughter lying on the floor, everything I believed came crashing down. My name is Rufus. I’m 55 years old, born and raised in Indiana. Most of my adult life I’ve been on the road, managing logistics for a freight company. I’m the kind of man people call steady—routine-driven, careful with money, not much of a talker unless it’s

They told me I was too old, too lonely, and too broken to matter. But the day I adopted a baby girl no one else wanted, everything changed. One week later, eleven black Rolls-Royces stopped in front of my porch, and the world I thought I knew turned upside down. My name is Donna, and I’m seventy-three years old. A widow. To most people, that means I’m supposed to sit quietly in a rocking chair, knit sweaters, and watch television until the end comes. But life doesn’t always go by