— That woman. Kate Sokolov. She filed a police report for stalking.
Andrew closed his eyes. He should have seen that coming.
— What happens now?
— Nothing critical yet. They took the report, but you haven’t technically done anything illegal. But… it’s probably best to stay away for a while.
Stay away from his own daughter. The irony was bitter.
— Understood, — he said and hung up.
The phone rang again—an unknown number. Andrew almost ignored it, but something made him answer.
— Miller? — The voice was female, elderly, and strangely familiar.
— Yes. Who is this?
— It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that I know what you’ve done.
Andrew felt a chill. That voice…
— The woman from the cemetery, — he breathed. — Is that you?
A pause. Then a quiet, dry chuckle.
— You’re quick. Good.
— Who are you? How do you know all this?
— Come to The Pines. Hope wants to see you. And I’ll be there. You’ll get your answers.
She hung up before he could say another word.
The Pines smelled the same as always. But there was a tension in the air; nurses were whispering in the hallways.
Andrew went up to the second floor. The door to Hope’s room was open. The old woman was lying in bed—not sitting up this time, but lying flat, looking small and fragile under the white sheets. Sitting in a chair next to her was the woman from the cemetery. In the daylight, she looked different: deep wrinkles, gray hair under a simple hat, but those same eyes. Translucent and knowing.
— You came, — Hope said, her voice barely audible. — Good. Sit.
Andrew sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. He looked at the stranger.
— Who are you?
— My name is Martha, — the woman said. — I’m Hope’s sister. Her younger sister.
— Sister? — Andrew looked at Hope. — You didn’t mention you had a sister.
— You didn’t ask. — Hope gave a weak smile. — Martha came from out of state. Specifically to find you.
— But how? How did you know I’d be at the cemetery?
Martha gave a small smile.
— Your wife passed away. It was in the papers. A man like you—your life isn’t a secret. I came a day early and waited by the gates.
— But why? Why all the mystery?
— Because Hope asked me to, — Martha said simply.
— She’s dying, Andrew. The doctors give her a week. Maybe two. She wanted you to know the truth before it was too late.
Andrew looked at Hope. He saw now what he’d missed before: the waxy paleness of her skin, the sunken eyes, the hands like parchment.
— Why didn’t you tell me the first time I came? — he asked with regret.
— Because you had to decide for yourself, — the old woman whispered. — Do you want to be a father or not? If you knew I was dying, you might have acted out of pity. Pity is a bad foundation for a family. It’s rotten.
She started coughing—a long, painful sound. Martha quickly gave her some water.
— I messed everything up, — Andrew admitted. — Kate… she filed a police report. She hates me.
— She doesn’t hate you, — Hope said after catching her breath. — She’s afraid. She grew up without a father. She always heard her mother say her father was a good man who just didn’t know. And then you show up, and what is she supposed to think? That you’re here out of guilt? Or something else?
— She doesn’t know who you really are, — Martha added. — She saw an expensive car, but there are plenty of rich men. She hasn’t connected you to the logistics firm. To her, you’re just a stranger who followed her and claimed to be her dad. How would you react?
Andrew was silent. He hadn’t thought about it from her perspective—the perspective of a frightened, lonely woman.
— What do I do? — he asked. — How do I fix this?
Hope looked at him for a long time, her gaze piercing.
— There’s a way, — she finally said. — But you won’t like it.
— Tell me. Anything.
— A DNA test. An official one. With paperwork and seals. So Kate can see it in black and white: you are her father. Not a scammer. Her father.
— I’m ready, — Andrew said immediately. — Tomorrow morning.
— But that’s not enough, — Hope continued. — You need her to agree to it. And for that, you need someone she trusts to talk to her.
— You?
— I’ll be gone in a week. — Hope said it matter-of-factly. — But before I go, I can write her a letter. Tell her everything. About you, about Sarah, about why her mother kept the secret all those years. Kate loves me. She’ll believe me.
Andrew felt a lump in his throat.
— You would do that? For me?
— Not for you, you fool, — the old woman snapped, finding a spark of energy. — For Kate. She deserves to know the truth. And she deserves a father, even one as flawed as you.
Martha reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope—old and yellowed.
— And one more thing, — she said. — Sarah left this before she died. She asked for it to be given to Kate when the time was right. I’ve been holding onto it for eight years.
Andrew looked at the envelope. On it, in handwriting he vaguely remembered, was written: “To my daughter. When she’s ready.”
— I’ll give it to her with Hope’s letter, — Martha said, putting it away. — After the funeral.
— The truth is in there, — Hope rasped. — Everything Sarah didn’t have the courage to say. Including about you. About that night. About why she didn’t want to ruin your life.
— I… — He couldn’t find the words. — Thank you. I don’t deserve this.
— Whether you deserve it is for Kate to decide, — the old woman said. — Your job is to give her the choice. Now go. I need to rest. And I have a letter to write while I still can.
Andrew left the facility. The evening sun was hitting the rooftops, and birds were singing. The world was moving on, unaware of the small tragedies and big hopes behind those brick walls. He sat in his car and didn’t start the engine for a long time. But he knew one thing: Hope was right. He had a chance. A fragile, thin chance, but a chance. And he wasn’t going to waste it.
Hope Gable passed away five days later. Andrew heard the news from Martha; she called early in the morning as the sun was just coming up.
— She went peacefully, — Martha’s tired voice said. — In her sleep. Kate was with her until the end.
Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, unable to move. He knew it was coming. He’d prepared himself. But it still felt like a blow.
— The letter? — he asked. — Did she finish it?
— She did. I’ll give it to Kate after the service. Along with Sarah’s.
— Can I come? To the funeral?
A long, heavy silence.
— I wouldn’t. Kate is on the edge as it is. If she sees you there, she might break. Wait. Give her time to grieve.
Andrew wanted to argue, but he knew Martha was right. Now wasn’t the time for his needs. It was time for Kate—to mourn her grandmother, the last person she had left.
— Okay, — he said quietly. — I’ll wait.
Waiting was agonizing. Andrew went back to work—his first time in the office in weeks. Dan met him with obvious relief.
— Thank God! I thought you’d disappeared for good. We barely saved that European contract.
Andrew shook his friend’s hand.
— I had some… difficult personal matters.
— That woman? Your daughter?
Comments are closed.