I read the message again.
Then I laughed.
It was not a happy laugh. It was the kind of laugh that escapes a man when something hurts so much that his body no longer knows what else to do.
“Dad?”
I looked up.
Chloe stood in the kitchen doorway wearing an oversized T-shirt, her dark hair gathered into a messy bun. At twenty-eight, she had grown into a confident, thoughtful woman, but whenever she looked at me that way, I could still see the little girl who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms.
“What happened?” she asked.
I turned the phone toward her.
She read the message once.
Then she read it again, more slowly.
“New family,” she murmured.
I nodded.
“Fifteen years, Dad. Fifteen years, and that is what she has to say.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Chloe looked at me sharply.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
