I corrected softly.
“He’s my father. And he has no idea.”
Wells pulled me in and let me cry for a while without trying to fix it. Then he leaned back and looked at me.
“Do you want to see him?”
I thought about every memory of Rhys I had: his easy laugh, and the way Grandma’s hands would go still whenever he was in the room.
“Yes,”
I told Wells.
“I need to see him.”
We drove there the following afternoon. Rhys opened the door with a wide, unguarded grin, genuinely happy to see me.
His wife, Greta, called out a warm greeting from the kitchen. The house was full of family photographs, vacations, and ordinary Saturday afternoons.
I had the letter in my bag and had planned exactly what I was going to say.
