“Because I have nowhere else to go,” she said.
Simply.
Without self-pity.
The way children state facts.
That adults spend their whole lives avoiding.
He looked at her.
At the DNA result on the desk between them.
At the notebook in her hands.
At seven years old sitting across from him.
With everything her mother had left her.
Which was the truth.
And a father who didn’t know she existed.
Until today.
“You can stay here tonight,” he said.
The girl looked at him.
“Why?” she said.
“Because—” he started.
He stopped.
Looked at his hands.
At the man he had become.
At the decisions that had built this office.
And the ones that had led to this chair.
To this girl.
To this moment.
“Because you’re right,” he said.
“I’m the only family you have.”
“And you’re the only family I have.”
“Even if neither of us chose it.”
Part 3
She stayed.
One night became two.
Two became a week.
He moved carefully around her.
Like someone learning a new language.
The language of a child.
Of his child.
In his apartment.
Using his things.
Existing in his space.
Like she had always belonged there.
Which — he was beginning to understand — she had.
On the fourth day she gave him the notebook.
Without explanation.
Just handed it across the breakfast table.
And went back to eating.
He read it that night.
