Thomas hadn’t spent decades alone regretting the daughter he’d lost.
He’d had another one.
Apparently, he’d simply done better the second time.
He looked smaller than I’d imagined.
For most of my life, he’d been a faceless man who had somehow decided I wasn’t worth finding.
Now he was only an old man lying in bed.
Thin wrists.
Hollow cheeks.
A blanket pulled high across his chest.
The moment I entered, his eyes filled with tears.
“You look exactly like Annie.”
I stayed standing.
“Did you know where I was?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
One word.
That was all it took.
“Yes?” My voice rose. “You knew?”
“Susan…”
“I went into foster care when I was six.”
“I know.”
“I slept in eight different houses before I turned twelve.”
His mouth trembled.
“I know.”
“I went to bed hungry.”
He looked away.
“I wore shoes until the soles split open.”
I swallowed the insult forming in my throat.
“And you lived here?”
Thomas began to cry.
“Don’t cry like this happened to you.”
He flinched. “You’re right.”
I turned toward the door.
His hand caught mine.
“I have no excuse, Susan.”
I looked down at his fingers wrapped around mine.
“And I have no right to ask you for anything,” he murmured.
“Then don’t.”
His grip loosened.
“Give me seven days.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
His breathing was shallow.
“Because time is something I don’t have.”
I should have left.
Instead, I sat down.
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