— “Have a seat, Andrew. We have a lot to talk about.”
He sat down, his heart hammering against his ribs. She knew his name. This was real.
— “How do you know who I am?” he asked.
— “I don’t know you personally,” she said, shaking her head. — “Never met you. But I know everything about you. I’ve heard the stories for years.”
— “From who?”
— “From my daughter. My Annie.”
Andrew felt the air leave his lungs.
— “Annie… the girl from ’96. Your daughter.” — He hesitated. — “Where is she? Can I see her?”
Zelda’s face clouded with pain, and her eyes welled up.
— “She’s gone, Andrew. We buried her eight years ago. Cancer. Just like your wife, it took her fast. Only my Annie didn’t have millions for fancy hospitals. Three months of pain, and then it was over.”
Andrew closed his eyes. Annie was gone. The girl he remembered as young and hopeful was a memory. He couldn’t ask her anything now.
— “I was told… she had a daughter,” he whispered.
Zelda didn’t answer right away. She reached for a drawer in her nightstand and pulled out an old photo album. Her hands shook, but she handled the book with care.
— “See for yourself.”
She opened the album. A photo of a five-year-old girl looked back at him. Blonde hair, gray eyes, a shy smile. Andrew stared at the picture, his stomach churning. He recognized that look. The high forehead, the shape of the jaw—it was his own face reflected in a child.
— “Keep looking,” Zelda commanded.
He turned the pages. The girl grew up, became a teenager, then a young woman. In the last photos, she was in her late twenties: beautiful, with a serious gaze and a determined set to her mouth.
— “What’s her name?” Andrew asked, his voice cracking.
— “Taylor. Annie named her after her grandmother.”
Taylor. His daughter. His own flesh and blood.
— “Annie… did she know?” he swallowed hard. — “Did she know I was the father?”
