Same coffee mugs.
No bacon.
Dad stared into his cup.
“You know what I’ve realized?”
“What?”
“DNA is the least important thing Harold ever gave either of you.”
I swallowed.
Dad continued.
“He gave you blood.”
Then he looked at me.
“I gave you breakfast.”
I laughed through my tears.
“And scraped knees,” he added. “Driving lessons. College tuition. Bad advice. Good advice. Christmas mornings.”
My eyes burned.
“Dad—”
He shook his head.
“No test gets to erase thirty-two years.”
Then he smiled.
“You’re my daughter.”
Three months later, Vanessa came home wearing an ankle monitor.
Dad met her at the front door.
She couldn’t even look at him.
“I’m not your real daughter,” she whispered.
Dad rested a hand on her shoulder.
“That lie has caused enough damage.”
Vanessa broke down.
He pulled her into his arms.
I thought that was the ending.
It wasn’t.
A year later, after Grant was sentenced to life in prison, Margaret called us together one final time.
Harold’s attorney had delivered sealed instructions.
Harold had changed his will two days before he was murdered.
His funeral home properties, investments, and land were worth nearly $11.4 million.
Everything was left equally to Vanessa and me.
But there was one condition.
Neither of us could receive a single dollar unless Richard Cole agreed to serve as trustee.
Dad laughed when he heard it.
“That manipulative bastard.”
Margaret smiled.
“There is also a note.”
She handed it to him.
Dad read it silently.
Then his expression changed.
“What does it say?” Vanessa asked.
He looked at both of us.
His voice broke.
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