My 13-year-old son Tim’s voice echoed through the chapel just as I lifted my bride Carolyn’s veil. The guests fell silent, and I followed his gaze to a butterfly-shaped birthmark on Carolyn’s shoulder — the same as a girl in his class named Emma. Four years ago, I buried my wife and never thought I’d love again. Carolyn changed that. She was kind, patient, and embraced my grief without trying to erase it. Most importantly, she cared for Tim,

even if he remained distant. When I proposed, Tim didn’t protest — but he didn’t celebrate either. I told myself that was enough. On our wedding day, just as the vows began, Tim stood and pointed out the birthmark. He explained Emma, his classmate, had the exact same one — and he’d read they can be hereditary. Carolyn paled. “I need to tell you something,”