He was in his forties, maybe older. Broad shoulders, rain-dark hair, expensive coat. His eyes were the color of old whiskey. The kind of eyes that had seen enough life to stop apologizing for taking up space.
He looked past Miranda and straight at me.
And something in my body recognized him before my mind did. Not because I knew him—because I knew the type.
Men who leave. Men who return when the hard part is over.
Miranda’s voice came out small. “This is… Grant.”
Grant. Not “Dad.” Not “Father.” Just a name, like she wasn’t sure what to call him yet.
The man cleared his throat. “Hello.”
I couldn’t find my voice for a second. When I did, it was rough. “Who are you?”
His gaze flicked to Miranda, then back to me. “I’m her biological father.”
The room tilted. Not dramatically—quietly, like the world had shifted one inch and my balance was suddenly wrong.
“No,” I said, and then hated how desperate it sounded. “No, that’s not possible.”
Miranda’s eyes flashed. “It is.”
I stared at her. “Miranda—Lila told me—”
“She told you he ran,” Miranda cut in. “She told you he vanished. She told you he didn’t care.”
I opened my mouth, closed it. “That’s what she told me,” I said. “That’s what she believed.”
Grant took a step forward. “I didn’t run.”
A laugh rose up in my throat, bitter and unwilling. “Oh? You didn’t?”
He didn’t flinch. “I was twenty-two. I made mistakes. I was scared, yes—but I didn’t abandon them.”
Miranda lifted her chin. “He has proof.”
I looked at her like I didn’t recognize her. “Proof of what?”
