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 heard the faint flap against the tile and looked down.

“Seriously?”

The shoe was old, but not ruined.

There had always been a difference to me.

I found a tube of adhesive beneath the sink, sat at the kitchen table, and carefully worked glue around the loose edge.

Clean it first. Press firmly. Wait.

Some habits survive childhood because they’re practical.

Others stay because your body remembers things your mind would rather forget.

I was holding the sole in place when three sharp knocks sounded at my door.

I wiped the glue from my fingers and opened it.

A man in an expensive dark suit stood outside.

“Are you Susan?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

He introduced himself as David, an attorney.

For one panicked second, I assumed something had gone wrong with my rent or taxes.

Then he said, “I represent your father.”

I laughed. “I don’t have one.”

His expression remained steady. “His name is Thomas.”

I stared at him.

For years, I’d wondered whether my father was dead, gone, or simply someone nobody wanted to discuss.

Now he suddenly had a name.

My hand tightened around the door. “Wrong Susan.”

“No.”

I started to close it.

Before the latch caught, David said, “Your mother’s name was Annie.”

I froze.

“Thomas has been trying to find you,” he continued.

“Trying?”

“He’s very ill.”

I stared at him. “How ill?”

“His doctors believe he has very little time.”

I nearly shut the door anyway.

Then David said the one thing I’d spent most of my childhood imagining.

“His last wish is to see his daughter.”

Two days later, I stood outside a house that looked like it belonged in a magazine.

Calling it a house hardly seemed accurate.

It was an estate, with windows taller than the bedroom I’d once shared with three foster girls when I was eleven.

“So this is where he lives?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

David hesitated. “Many years.”

Many years.

While I learned which foster parents locked snacks away after dinner.

While I wore donated clothes.

While I learned not to unpack completely because somebody might decide I was “not a good fit” the following month.

My father had been here.

A woman opened the front door before we reached it.

She looked around thirty-five. Beautiful. Polished. Completely comfortable in the place.

“You must be Susan.”

“Yes.”

“I’m Caroline. Thomas’s real daughter.”

The words were blunt, without apology.

David shifted beside me.

Caroline stepped aside. “He’s upstairs.”

I walked past her.

Thomas hadn’t spent decades alone regretting the daughter he’d lost.

He’d had another one.

Apparently, he’d simply done better the second time.

He looked smaller than I’d imagined.

For most of my life, he’d been a faceless man who had somehow decided I wasn’t worth finding.

Now he was only an old man lying in bed.

Thin wrists. Hollow cheeks. A blanket pulled high across his chest.

The moment I entered, his eyes filled with tears.

“You look exactly like Annie.”

I stayed standing. “Did you know where I was?”

Thomas closed his eyes. “Yes.”

One word. That was all it took.

“Yes?” My voice rose. “You knew?”

“Susan…”

“I went into foster care when I was six.”

“I know.”

“I slept in eight different houses before I turned twelve.”

His mouth trembled. “I know.”

“I went to bed hungry.”

He looked away.

“I wore shoes until the soles split open.”

I swallowed the insult forming in my throat.

“And you lived here?”

Thomas began to cry.

“Don’t cry like this happened to you.”

He flinched. “You’re right.”

I turned toward the door.

His hand caught mine.

“I have no excuse, Susan.”

I looked down at his fingers wrapped 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.”

I should have left. Instead, I sat down.

The first day, I barely spoke. Thomas didn’t pressure me.

On the second, he asked whether 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 hated hearing that story. Mostly because part of me wanted another.

On the third day, he told me Mom used to tap one finger against her glass whenever she was angry.

I looked down. My index finger was tapping against the arm of the chair.

Thomas smiled. I stopped immediately.

“Don’t look pleased.”

“I’m not, dear.”

“You are.”

He sighed. “Maybe a little.”

For several hours, we talked about my mother.

About how badly she sang while washing dishes.

How she’d once driven forty miles back to a gas station because she’d forgotten her purse.

How she tied my shoes twice because I always managed to kick them loose.

For years, Mom had existed in my memory as fragments.

Thomas gave me pieces I’d never had…

I was about to ask him the one devastating question that burned inside my chest for decades…