That Thanksgiving started like all the others. Comfortable. Familiar. Safe. We sat down to eat, and for a while, everything felt right with the world.
Then Grace put her fork down.
Her face went pale, and her hands trembled slightly as she folded them in her lap. I knew that look. The one that meant something heavy had been carried for too long.
“Dad,” she said softly. “I need to tell you something.”
I reached across the table and took her hand without hesitation. “Whatever it is,” I said, “we’ll handle it together.”
She inhaled, sharp and shaky. Tears gathered in her eyes.
“I’m going back to my real dad.”
The words landed like a sudden silence after a loud noise. My chest tightened, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“What do you mean?” I asked quietly.
She looked terrified, not defiant. That scared me more than anything else.
“You know him,” she said. “You’ve seen him.”
I searched my mind, confused, unsettled. Then she said his name.
Mr. Dalton.
When the Past Comes Knocking
Mr. Dalton was my landlord. A wealthy man who owned several buildings in our neighborhood. He stopped by the shop once a month, always well-dressed, always distant, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.
Grace explained through tears. He had found her. Showed her an old photograph of him and her mother when they were young. Told her he wasn’t ready back then, but now he was older, established, successful.
He promised opportunities. Education. A future that sparkled with things I could never provide.
What hurt wasn’t the money. It was the doubt in her voice. The fear that maybe love wasn’t enough.
I asked her what he had promised.
“A future,” she said.
