Chapter 9
The DNA results came in ten days later.
Thomas was my father.
99.9998%.
I stared at the page until the numbers blurred.
Maya squeezed my hand.
Priya cried first.
Then I did.
Thomas came over that evening.
Not to my apartment.
To a quiet café I chose.
Public.
Safe.
He sat across from me, hands folded.
I slid the paper toward him.
His eyes filled before he even read it.
Then he covered his mouth.
“My daughter,” he whispered.
I broke.
Not because he said it dramatically.
Because he said it like a prayer.
I had spent years telling myself I did not need a father.
Then one sat across from me with twenty-one years of grief in his hands.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I said.
“Me neither.”
“What if I’m angry?”
“You should be.”
“What if I don’t want to call you Dad?”
“Then don’t.”
“What if I do someday?”
His face crumpled.
May you like
“I’ll be here.”
That answer was enough for one night.
