Today’s the day. After twenty years of believing I wasn’t worth fighting for, I’m going to call my father.
The thought should terrify me, but instead I feel… ready. Spending Christmas Eve talking through everything with Ryder has somehow prepared me for this moment. His quiet confidence that my father might be a good man who was prevented from seeing me, rather than someone who abandoned me willingly, has settled into my bones as truth.
Outside, snow blows off the roof, flakes sparkling in the sunlight—fresh, bright, and full of possibility. Inside, Ryder hums under his breath as he sets a plate of pancakes in front of me, and something in my chest loosens. Maybe new beginnings don’t always come with fanfare. Maybe they start like this—quiet and warm and real.
He sits across from me and nods toward the phone on the counter.
”What will you say?”
“I have no idea.” I laugh, but it’s shaky around the edges. “Hi, Dad, it’s the daughter you haven’t heard from in two decades because I believed Mom when she said you didn’t want me? Is that true? If it is, well… sorry about that.”
“Hey.” Ryder’s hand covers mine across the table, his palm easily engulfing my entire hand, warm and solid and steady. His thumb strokes gently across my knuckles. “However it goes, you’re brave for trying. That matters.”
The simple support in his voice does something to my heart that I’m not ready to examine. Having someone in my corner, someone who believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself, feels like a gift I don’t deserve but desperately need.
After breakfast, we fall into our easy morning routine of checking on all the animals, but there’s an undercurrent of anticipation running through everything. The big conversation is coming—the phone call that could change everything—and we both know it.
Back in the cabin, I dig out the piece of paper with my father’s phone number, my hands surprisingly steady. The cell signal is still spotty, but strong enough for a call if I’m careful about where I stand.
“I’ll give you privacy,” Ryder says, already moving toward his coat.
“No.” The word comes out before I can think about it. “I mean, if you don’t mind staying. I think I’ll need the moral support.”
His smile is soft and sure, tusks catching the morning light as his expression fills with quiet pride. “Whatever you need.”
I dial the number, heart hammering as it rings. Once, twice, three times. Maybe he’s not home. Maybe this number is wrong. Maybe—
“Hello?” The voice is older than I remember, weathered by time, but unmistakably familiar.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “Is this… is this David Hillman?”
A pause. Then, carefully: “Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s…” I take a shaky breath. “It’s Laney. Your daughter.”
The silence that follows stretches so long I think the connection might have dropped. Or… could he have hung up on me? Then I hear what sounds like a sob, quickly muffled.
“Laney?” His voice breaks on my name. “Oh my God, Laney. Is it really you?”
“It’s really me,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I should have called sooner. I should have—”
“No.” His voice is firm despite the tears I can hear in it. “No, my Sunshine, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. I’ve been hoping for this call every day for twenty years.”
The word—sunshine—sparks something deep inside me. My breath catches. For years, that name has been a wound, a reminder of the father who left, of feeling unlovable. When Ryder first said it, I’d flinched. But hearing it now, in my father’s voice, broken with emotion and love…
“You… you still call me that?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Of course I do.” His voice cracks, thick with tears. “You were always my Sunshine, Laney. My bright, brave little girl. Thatnever changed, not for one second in twenty years. Not even when your mother made it impossible to see you.”
The endearment that’s haunted me, that’s been twisted by loss and abandonment, suddenly feels like it’s being given back to me. Reclaimed. This is what it was supposed to mean—his little girl, his Sunshine.
Beside me, Ryder squeezes my hand gently. He understands. He’s been calling me Sunshine, not knowing it was my father’s name for me, but somehow making it new again. Making it about who I am now, not who I lost.
And just like that, twenty years of wondering and hurt and believing I wasn’t worth fighting for dissolve into something that feels like the world rearranging itself.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. There’s only the sound of breathing—his, mine, both trembling with everything we’ve lost and finally found.
“I can’t believe I’m really hearing your voice,” I whisper, tears blurring my vision. “I missed you so much.”
