He never told her she had ruined his life.
He never called her a disgrace.
Instead, he would sit on the edge of her bed, place a hand on her shoulder, and remind her of something she desperately needed to hear.
“You are still my little girl, Emma. No matter what happens, you will always be my little girl.”
For eighteen years, she believed those words were the greatest proof of his love.
Then, shortly before Sophie’s eighteenth birthday, Emma received a letter that made her question everything she thought she knew about her family.
Her father had been dead for four years.
And he had left behind a secret he had been too afraid to reveal while he was alive.
Emma was thirty-one when the letter arrived.
It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. She had just returned from work, still wearing her office clothes, when she found an envelope waiting among the bills and advertisements on the kitchen table.
