Son. The word hits me harder than it should.
"She's pregnant," I hear myself say. I didn't plan to tell him. The words just come out.
Rick goes completely still.
For a moment, I think he's stopped breathing.
Then his face crumbles—not with grief, but with something else. Something that looks almost like joy.
"Pregnant," he whispers. "My baby girl is having a baby."
"Five weeks along. Give or take."
"And she's staying clean? Even with—" He can't finish the sentence.
"She's fighting. Every day, she's fighting."
Rick wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, not bothering to hide the tears. "You know what that means, don't you? What she's doing?"
"What?"
"She's breaking the cycle." His voice cracks on the words. "Her mother couldn't do it. I couldn't do it. But Vanna—she's doing it. For that baby. For you. For herself."
The hope in his voice is almost painful to hear.
This is a man who's spent years in a cell, thinking about all the ways he failed his daughter.
And now he's learning that she might actually make it.
That she might be stronger than he ever was.
"I want to reconnect with her," Rick says. "When she's ready. If she's ever ready. I don't expect forgiveness—I don't deserve it. But I want her to know that I'm proud of her. That I believe in her."
"I'll tell her."
"Tell her something else, too." He holds my gaze, and for a moment, I see Vanna in his eyes—the same stubborndetermination, the same desperate need to be understood. "Tell her that addiction isn't a death sentence. Tell her that people like us can change. It's hard, and it hurts, and most days you want to give up—but it's possible. Recovery is possible."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"And Bloodhound?" Rick waits until I meet his eyes again. "Thank you. For not giving up on her. For being there when I couldn't be."
"I love her," I say simply. "Giving up was never an option."
The drive to Pennsylvania feels different this time.
Three days ago, when Vanna called to tell me she was pregnant, I was paralyzed.
Couldn't think. Couldn't move.
Just sat on the curb outside the clubhouse, trying to remember how to breathe.
The word kept echoing in my head—pregnant, pregnant, pregnant—until it didn't sound like a word anymore.
Just a sound.
A collection of syllables that was somehow supposed to change everything.
Aunt Ellie found me there, talked me down, helped me process.
