“He’s very ill.”

I stared at him.

“How ill?”

“His doctors believe he has very little time.”

I nearly shut the door anyway.

Then David said the one thing I’d spent most of my childhood imagining.

“His last wish is to see his daughter.”

Two days later, I stood outside a house that looked like it belonged in a magazine.

Calling it a house hardly seemed accurate.

It was an estate, with windows taller than the bedroom I’d once shared with three foster girls when I was eleven.

“So this is where he lives?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

David hesitated. “Many years.”

***Many years.***

While I learned which foster parents locked snacks away after dinner.

While I wore donated clothes.

While I learned not to unpack completely because somebody might decide I was “not a good fit” the following month.

My father had been here.

***

A woman opened the front door before we reached it.

She looked around thirty-five.

Beautiful. Polished. Completely comfortable in the place.

“You must be Susan.”

“Yes.”

“I’m Caroline. Thomas’s real daughter.”

The words were blunt, without apology.

David shifted beside me.

Caroline stepped aside.

“He’s upstairs.”

I walked past her.

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