I grew up in foster care believing my father had disappeared from my life. Then a lawyer told me Thomas was rich, dying, and asking for seven days with me. I stayed. After his funeral, the lawyer found me packing my bags, slid an envelope across the table, and said, “You walked right into his trap.”
The sole of my shoe came loose while I was standing in my kitchen.
I grew up in foster care believing my father had disappeared from my life.
I heard the soft flap against the tile and immediately looked down.
“Seriously?”
The shoe was old.
Not ruined.
There was a difference.
At least, there had always been a difference to me.
I found the tube of adhesive beneath the sink, sat at the kitchen table, and worked glue carefully along the edge.
The shoe was old.
Clean it first.
Press firmly.
Wait.
Some habits survive childhood because they’re useful.
Others survive because your body remembers what your mind would rather forget.
I was holding the sole closed when someone knocked on my door.
Three sharp taps.
I wiped glue from my fingers and opened it.
Someone knocked on my door.
A man in an expensive dark suit stood outside.
“Are you Susan?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
He introduced himself as David.
Attorney.
For one panicked second, I assumed something was wrong with my rent or taxes.
Then he said, “I represent your father.”
I laughed.
“I don’t have one.”
He introduced himself as David.
His expression didn’t change.
“His name is Thomas.”
For a second, I just stared at him. I’d spent years wondering whether my father was dead, gone, or simply someone nobody wanted to talk about.
Hearing that he had a name made him suddenly, horribly real.
I’d spent years wondering whether my father was dead.
My hand tightened around the door.
“Wrong Susan.”
“No.”
I started closing it.
He spoke before the latch caught.
“Your mother’s name was Annie.”
The door stopped.
“Thomas has been trying to find you,” David said.
“Trying?”
“He’s very ill.”
“Thomas has been trying to find you.”
I stared at him.
“How ill?”
“His doctors believe he has very little time.”
I almost shut the door.
Then David said the one thing I had spent most of my childhood imagining.
“His last wish is to see his daughter.
“His doctors believe he has very little time.”
Two days later, I stood outside a house that looked like it belonged in a magazine.
Calling it a house felt dishonest.
It was an estate.
With windows taller than the bedroom I had shared with three foster girls when I was 11.
“So this is where he lives?”
“Yes.”
“So this is where he lives?”
“For how long?”
David hesitated. “Many years.”
Many years.
While I learned which foster parents locked snacks after dinner.
While I wore donated clothes.
While I learned not to unpack everything because somebody might decide I was “not a good fit” next month.
My father had been here.
I wore donated clothes.
A woman opened the front door before we reached it.
She looked about 35.
Beautiful.
Polished.
Completely at home.
“You must be Susan.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Caroline. Thomas’s real daughter.”
Every word was blunt and stripped of any apology.
“I’m Caroline. Thomas’s real daughter.”
David shifted beside me.
Caroline stepped back.
“He’s upstairs.”
I walked past her.
Thomas hadn’t spent decades alone, regretting the daughter he lost.
He’d had another one.
Apparently, he’d simply done better the second time.
He looked smaller than I expected.
A faceless man who had somehow decided I wasn’t worth finding.
Thomas hadn’t spent decades alone, regretting the daughter he lost.
But Thomas was just an old man in a bed.
Thin wrists.
Hollow cheeks.
A blanket pulled high over his chest.
When I stepped inside, his eyes filled instantly.
“You look exactly like Annie.”
I didn’t sit.
“Did you know where I was?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You look exactly like Annie.”
One word.
That was all it took.
“Yes?” My voice rose.
I stepped closer.
“You knew?”
“Susan…”
“I went into foster care when I was six.”
“I know.”
“I slept in eight different houses before I turned 12.”
His mouth trembled.
“I know.”
“I went to bed hungry.”
He looked away.
“I went into foster care when I was six.”
“I wore shoes until the soles split open.”
I swallowed whatever insult I was about to utter.
“And you lived here?” I asked instead.
Thomas started crying.
“Don’t cry like this happened to you.”
He flinched. “You’re right.”
I turned toward the door.
Then his hand caught mine.
“Don’t cry like this happened to you.”
“I have no excuse, Susan.”
I looked down at his fingers around mine.
“And I have no right to ask you for anything,” he murmured.
“Then don’t.”
His grip loosened.
“Give me seven days.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
His breathing was shallow.
“Because time is something I don’t have.”
“Give me seven days.”
I should have left.
Instead, I sat down.
The first day, I barely spoke.
Thomas didn’t push.
The second day, he asked if I still hated pears.
I frowned. “How would you know that?”
“Your mother hated them.”
“So?”
His mouth twitched.
“So did you. Even mashed into baby food.”
I should have left.
I hated that story.
Mostly because I wanted more.
On day three, he told me Mom tapped one finger against her glass when she was angry.
I looked down.
My index finger was tapping against the arm of the chair.
Thomas smiled.
