My feet carry me up the steps without conscious thought. Twenty years of imagined reunions, and all I can manage is: “Hi, Dad.”
Then his arms are around me, and I’m eight years old again, crying over a scraped knee while he holds me and promises everything will be okay. Except I’m twenty-eight and we’ve lost two decades, and nothing will ever be fully okay again, but somehow his hug still feels like safety.
He smells different—a different aftershave from the Old Spice I remember, laundry detergent that’s not the brand Mom used—but underneath it, something familiar. Something that makes my throat close with emotion.
“My Sunshine,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re really here.”
I can’t speak. Can only hold on and try not to fall apart completely on his front porch.
A throat clears politely, and we pull apart to find a teenage girl in the doorway, watching us with undisguised curiosity and something that might be excitement.
“Are you the famous Laney?” she asks bluntly. “Dad’s been freaking out all morning. He changed his shirt like four times.”
“Nadira, manners!” A woman’s voice from inside, warm with exasperation.
But Nadira—my half-sister, I realize with a jolt—just grins. “What? It’s true. I’m Nadira, by the way. The cool sister. Jake’s inside trying to act like he doesn’t care about meeting you, but he’s been staring out the window for an hour.”
Despite everything, I laugh. The sound comes out watery, but it’s genuine. “Nice to meet you, Nadira.”
“Is that the orc?” She peers past me to where Ryder’s approaching, having hung back to give us space. “Wow, you’re even bigger than I imagined. I mean, in a good way. A very impressive way.”
“Nadira!” The woman appears now—petite, dark-haired, with kind eyes and an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. She has no filter.”
“I have a filter,” Nadira protests. “I just choose not to use it.”
“I’m Georgia,” the woman says, extending her hand to me. “Your father’s wife. And I’m so, so happy to finally meet you.”
There’s no resentment in her expression, no territoriality. Just genuine warmth. This woman, who married my father, who birthed and raised his other children, who could reasonably see me as a complication—she looks at me like I’m a gift.
“Come inside,” Dad says, his hand on my shoulder like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. “Please. Everyone’s here. Georgia’s been cooking for two days.”
The moment I step inside, I’m hit by a wave of warmth and scent—buttery rolls, cinnamon, roasted something that makes my stomach growl. The house smells like comfort itself, like a holiday you didn’t know you missed until it wrapped around you and refused to let go.
The interior of the house looks lived in and loved. Family photos cover every surface—Nadira at various ages, a gangly teenage boy who must be Jake, several of Dad and Georgia on their wedding day. And there, on the mantle, in a place of honor: a photo of Dad with a tiny blonde girl on his shoulders.
Me. Age seven, maybe. Gap-toothed and grinning, absolutely certain that my daddy could do anything.
“That was the last photo I had,” Dad says quietly, following my gaze. “Before everything fell apart. I had it enlarged and have kept it in every apartment, every house, every place I’ve lived for twenty years.” His voice drops to a whisper. “So I wouldn’t forget what you looked like. So you’d know, if you ever came back, that I never stopped being your dad.”
The careful control I’ve been maintaining shatters as hot tears spill down my cheeks. I don’t even try to stem them. For some reason, they feel good, like a new beginning.
Behind us, Ryder’s solid presence. Not intervening, but there. Ready to catch me if I fall.
Georgia quietly shepherds Nadira away, giving us space. I hear her whisper, “Give them a minute,” and Nadira’s softer, “But I want to meet her properly.”
“You will. Let them have this first.”
Dad and I stand in his living room, crying and holding each other, trying to bridge twenty years with an embrace that can’t possibly be long enough.
When we finally pull apart, he cups my face in his hands—hands I remember as bigger, but they’re still gentle, still his—and gazes at me like a man who’s been holding his breath for years.
“You grew up so beautiful,” he says. “Not just beautiful—strong. I can see it in you. The strength it took to call me, to come here. Your grandmother would be so proud.”
“She would’ve liked hearing that,” I whisper. “She always said I got my stubborn streak from you.”
He laughs softly, the sound rough with emotion. “Then she was right about that, too.” He exhales, voice breaking. “I missed so much of your life, Laney. But I never stopped hoping for this—for you.”
Fresh tears well up. “I always wanted you, Dad. I just thought you didn’t want me.”
