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He removes his cap, then his sunglasses.

My breath leaves me.

I've stared at his photograph for months. Memorized every feature, every detail that made him look so much like me.

The man standing in front of me is older than the one in that picture.

But it's him.

Elliot Rolland.

My father.

Alive.

“No,” I whisper.

He studies my face.

“Well, I'll be damned.”

I can't stop looking at him.

“You're alive.”

“Looks that way.”

“Mom thought you were dead. I thought you were dead.”

“Had to make a clean break.”

“You let everyone believe you'd died?”

“It worked.”

I shake my head.

All those months searching for him. All the questions I wanted to ask.

And now I can't think of a single one that matters more than this.

“Did you know about me?”

“No. Teresa never said anything about a kid.”

“I'm your daughter.”

“So it seems.”

He says it like I've told him something mildly inconvenient.

I swallow hard.

“Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

He shrugs.

“Look, I had a life before I disappeared. Probably got other kids out there I don't know about.”