First message
The first time he saw her, she was fifteen.
Fifteen years old, standing across from him with her arms crossed, staring at him like he was a stranger who had no right to be there.
And maybe, in her eyes, he was.
Two weeks ago, he’d found out he had a daughter. A paternity test confirmed it. Fifteen years of birthdays, school events, scraped knees, Christmas mornings—fifteen years he never even knew existed.
He couldn’t get those years back.
So he did the only thing he knew how to do: he fought.
His lawyers secured custody, despite her mother’s objections, and now his daughter was standing inside his house for the first time. He had money, a successful career, and a reputation for being demanding and impossible to intimidate.
But none of that helped him now.
He glanced toward her, trying to hide how nervous he actually was.
“I know you don’t want to be here.”
His voice was firm, almost stern, before he caught himself and softened it.
“You don’t have to call me Dad. You don’t have to pretend you like me. You don’t even have to talk to me tonight.”
He swallowed, looking at the girl he’d missed fifteen years of knowing.
“But I’m not sending you away.”
A pause.
“I didn’t know you existed. That’s not your fault. But now that I do know…” He exhaled quietly. “I want to be your dad. Even if it takes you a long time to let me.”