— Yes, — he exhaled. — A long time ago. A very long time ago.
The silence lasted an eternity.
— There’s a coffee shop around the corner, — Kate finally said. — You have ten minutes. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m calling the police.
The cafe was small and half-empty. They sat in a corner booth, away from the other customers. Kate ordered tea; Andrew ordered a double espresso he didn’t touch.
— Talk, — she demanded. — How did you know my mom?
Andrew gathered his courage. The words he’d practiced for sleepless nights were stuck in his throat.
— We met in the summer of 1996, — he began. — I had just finished grad school. I was working a junior job. I lived in a small apartment complex. Your mother was my neighbor.
Kate listened in silence, her hand gripping her napkin.
— We were close. For a short time. My fiancée was away for the summer, and I… — He hesitated. — I’m not making excuses. I’m just telling you what happened.
— Go on.
— That fall, I got married. And your mother… — He swallowed hard. — I didn’t know. I swear on everything I hold dear, I didn’t know she was pregnant. She never told me. I only found out two weeks ago.
Kate was silent. Her face was a mask of shock.
— Are you saying… — Her voice wavered and broke. — Are you saying that you’re…
— Kate…
The silence that followed was heavy. Kate looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. For a few seconds—or was it minutes?—she didn’t say a word. Then she slowly, carefully set her cup on the table.
— What did you just say?
— I’m your father… — he repeated, his own voice sounding hollow. — Your biological father. I know how that sounds, but…
— You’re crazy… — Kate shook her head, pulling back. — Or a scammer. I don’t know what you want from me, but… I have nothing. I have nothing to give you.
— Then why? — She raised her voice, and a few customers looked over. — Why are you saying this? Why are you following me? What kind of sick game is this?
Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He opened the photo—the one from Hope’s album. A five-year-old girl with blonde pigtails.
— Do you recognize this?
Kate looked at the screen and froze. Of course she recognized it. It was one of the few childhood photos she had.
— Where did you get that? — she whispered, her face pale.
— From your grandmother. Hope Gable. I’ve been to see her. Twice.
Kate’s expression shifted. Suspicion turned into something else—fear? Anger?
— You went to see my grandmother? You… — She stopped, realizing. — She told you? About me?
— Yes. And about your mother. About Sarah.
At the mention of her mother’s name, Kate flinched as if she’d been struck.
— Don’t you dare… — she hissed. — Don’t you dare say her name. You have no right.
— I know, — Andrew said quietly, looking down. — I know I have no right. I have no right to anything. I walked away thirty years ago without even knowing she was carrying a child. I lived my life in luxury while you struggled. I…
— Stop! — Kate slammed her hand on the table. Her tea splashed onto the cloth. — Stop! I don’t want to hear it!
She grabbed her bag and stood up. Andrew stood up too, trying to stop her.
— Kate, please, wait!
— Don’t touch me! — She recoiled. — Stay away from me. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I’m not interested. I don’t have a father. I never did, and I never will.
She ran out of the cafe, the door swinging shut behind her. Andrew stood in the middle of the room, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares. A waitress came over and asked if everything was okay. He didn’t answer. Through the window, he saw Kate walking toward the bus stop—fast, almost running, never looking back. Her shoulders were shaking. She was crying.
For three days, Andrew didn’t leave his house. He didn’t answer Dan’s calls, he didn’t eat, he barely slept. He sat in his study, staring at Kate’s photo and thinking about what a fool he’d been. Hope was right. He’d lost his nerve. Again. Instead of building a foundation, he’d thrown the truth in her face and expected a miracle.
On the fourth day, Jim called.
— Mr. Miller, we have a problem.
— What is it?
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