“What kind of conditions?” Anna’s voice sharpened.
“Stella was two. Two years old and I’d never known. Fiona said she hadn’t planned to tell me at all, but Stella had started asking about her dad. Getting old enough to notice she didn’t have one.” Tyler’s voice cracked slightly. “She gave me a choice. I could know Stella, see her twice a year, be in her life. But...”
“But?” Meg prompted gently.
“But I couldn’t tell anyone. Not you, not Margo, no one. She said...” Tyler took a shaky breath. “She said if I involved my family, if I tried for more than she was offering, she’d disappear. Move somewhere I’d never find them. And I’d lose Stella forever.”
“She threatened you?” Anna’s outrage was clear even through the phone.
“She was protecting herself. And Stella. She didn’t want custody battles or interference or...” Tyler shrugged helplessly. “She didn’t want to deal with a whole family. Just me. Controlled visits. Contained.”
“So you agreed,” Meg said.
“What choice did I have? Say no and never know my daughter? Tell you all and risk Fiona running?” Tyler’s laugh was bitter. “I was twenty-five and terrified and suddenly a father to a toddler I’d never met. So yes, I agreed.”
“Fourteen years,” Anna said quietly. “You kept this secret for fourteen years.”
“You don’t understand what it was like.” Tyler’s voice hardened slightly. “Seeing her twice a year. Watching her grow up in snapshots. Trying to build a relationship in two-week increments while pretending to everyone here that I was just taking photography jobs.”
“We would have understood,” Meg said.
“Would you? Really?” Tyler turned to her. “You, who hadn’t been home in years? Anna, who was drowning in your own divorce and custody battles? What exactly would you have understood?”
The words stung because they held truth.
“That’s not fair,” Anna said.
“Isn’t it?” Tyler’s exhaustion made him blunt. “When would we have had this conversation, Anna? During school pickup when you were juggling Bea and the divorce lawyers? Meg, between your seventy-hour work weeks?”
“Tyler—” Meg started.
“I’m not blaming you. Either of you. We all had our stuff. But don’t sit there and tell me you would have been available for this when you weren’t available for anything else.”
Silence fell, uncomfortable and heavy with truth. They’d all chosen distance in their own ways.
“You’re right,” Meg said finally. “We weren’t here. But we’re here now.”
Tyler’s anger deflated as quickly as it had risen. “Yeah. Now. When it’s all falling apart.”
“Tell us about her,” Anna said softly. “Not the situation. Her.”
Tyler’s face changed, something softening. “She was three when I taught her to swim. Refused to use floaties, insisted she could do it herself. Sank like a stone five times before she figured it out.”
“Stubborn,” Meg noted.
“Pure Walsh.” A small smile played at Tyler’s lips. “When she was five, I took her surfing. These tiny waves, barely ripples. She stood up for maybe two seconds and acted like she’d conquered Pipeline.”
“What else?” Anna prompted.
“There was this ice cream place near Bondi. She’d always get mint chocolate chip, but in a cup, not a cone, because cones were ‘structurally unsound.’” Tyler’s voice caught. “Seven years old and talking about structural integrity.”
“She sounds amazing,” Meg said.
“She was. Is. But...” Tyler’s smile faded. “Something changed when she hit thirteen. Maybe it was normal teenage stuff, maybe it was me only being there twice a year, but she started pulling away. Last few visits were rough. She barely talked to me.”
“And now?” Anna asked.
“Now Fiona remarried. New husband, new life, new stepkids. Stella didn’t adjust well. Started acting out, asking harder questions about me, about why she couldn’t know my family.” Tyler scrubbed at his face. “Fiona called about six weeks ago. I flew out immediately. We spent a month trying to figure out what to do.”
