“A little. She said you worked together a long time ago. And that you… that you could have been my dad, if things had been different.”
“Could have been your dad?”
“Yeah. She said you loved each other very much once. But then something happened, and you had a big fight. And you never saw each other again.”
Mike felt a knot tighten in his chest. He looked at the girl—the way she tilted her head when she thought, the stubborn set of her jaw. It was like looking in a mirror from twenty-five years ago.
“And your father… where is he?”
“I don’t have one,” Daisy said simply. “I mean, he’s out there somewhere, but we don’t know him. Mom says he doesn’t even know I exist.”
Mike felt the air leave the room. He tore open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in trembling script.
*“Mike, I know I have no right to write to you after how things ended. But I’m dying, and there are things you need to know. Daisy is your daughter. I found out I was pregnant a month after we broke up. I wanted to tell you, but you were already with Stephanie, and you seemed happy. And I… I was too proud and too hurt by the way you walked away.*
*Forgive me for keeping the truth from you for eight years. Forgive me for everything. It’s Stage 4. The doctors say weeks, maybe two months at most. Daisy will be alone. She has no one but you.*
*I’m not asking you to take her in or raise her if you can’t. But please, make sure she finds a good home. She’s a smart, kind girl. She deserves to be loved. If you want to see us, we’re at 12 Maple Street, Apt 35. If not—I understand.*
*Hope.*
*P.S. Look at her closely. You’ll know.”*
Mike read the letter twice. Then he slowly looked up at Daisy, who was waiting patiently in the chair.
“Daisy,” he said, his voice thick, “when is your mother’s birthday?”
“May 23rd.”
“And when were you born?”
“December 1st. I’ll be eight soon.”
Mike did the math in his head. If she was born in December, she was conceived in March. Right when he and Hope were at their closest.
“Do you know what a DNA test is?” he asked.
“No. What’s that?”
“It’s a way to find out for sure if people are related.”
“Are we related?”
Mike looked at her. His eyes, his nose, the same way he used to fidget with his watch when he was nervous—she was doing it with a loose thread on her sleeve.
“Maybe,” he said softly. “It’s very possible.”
Daisy smiled. It was the first time she had smiled during the whole conversation.
“Mom will be happy I gave you the letter. She was worried you wouldn’t want to see me.”
“Daisy,” Mike said, standing up, “do you want me to drive you home? I need to talk to your mother.”
“Really? You want to see her?”
“I really do.”
As they walked out of the office, Mike realized his life had just shifted on its axis. And he was about to face the woman he had spent nearly a decade trying to forget.
“Mike, what’s going on?” Stephanie asked, her voice sharp with concern when she saw his face later that evening.
A twenty-nine-year-old socialite and former model, Stephanie was used to Mike being the rock—steady, controlled, and predictable. Tonight, he looked like he’d been hit by a freight train.
“We need to talk,” he said, dropping into an armchair.
“About what? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have. Stephanie, do you remember Hope Parker?”
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