The screen was open to a conversation. An unknown number. No name. Just messages.

The first lines seemed harmless.

— “Are you sure you want to talk to me?”
— “Yes. I have no one else.”
— “Does your father know?”
— “No. And he must never find out.”

My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe.

I scrolled down.

— “I’m scared.”
— “Of what?”
— “That I’m not who he thinks I am.”

It felt like the world stopped.

I looked at Marisa.

“Who is this?” I whispered.

She crossed her arms.

“Some man. They’ve been texting for over a month. In secret. She deletes everything. I saw it by accident on her tablet.”

I kept reading.

— “I found some old documents.”
— “What kind?”
— “About the accident. About my parents.”
— “And?”
— “Something doesn’t add up.”

A chill ran down my spine.

What documents?

I had always been honest with Avery. At least, I thought I had. I told her about the hospital, that night, how we met.

Or… my version of it.

The last message broke me.

— “I think my dad is lying to me.”

The phone slipped from my fingers.

My daughter.

My child.

That little girl in the pink shirt.

She doubted me.

“You have to talk to her,” Marisa said firmly. “This isn’t normal. Secrets. Lies. Hidden conversations.”

I nodded, barely hearing her.

Only one question echoed in my head:

What did I miss?

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I sat in the kitchen, staring at my cold coffee.

Thinking about everything.

The silences.

The closed doors.

The way she avoided my eyes.

When she stopped drawing.

When she started locking herself in.

When she began hiding her phone.

I blamed it on being a teenager.

I was wrong.

In the morning, I knocked on her door.

“Avery… can I come in?”

Silence.

Then the lock clicked.

She was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees. Her eyes looked too tired for someone so young.

“Dad… are you mad at me?” she asked quietly.

That question hurt.

“No. I’m worried about you,” I said.

I sat beside her.

We stayed silent for a while.

Then she asked,

“Are you lying to me?”

Straight to the point.

No warning.

I took a deep breath.

“Why would you think that?”

She pulled out a folder.

Yellowed papers. Stamps. Copies.

“I found these in the hospital archives,” she said. “My mom didn’t die right away. She was conscious.”

I froze.

“What…?”

“She asked about me,” Avery continued. “She begged them not to give me to a stranger.”

The words cut deep.

“Did you know?” she asked.

I closed my eyes.

Yes.

I knew.

A doctor had told me back then.

She cried.

She was scared.

She wanted her family.

But there was no one.

And I…

I was already holding her hand.

I couldn’t let go.

Social services said the truth would hurt her too much.

And I agreed.

“I wanted to protect you,” I whispered. “You were so little. I was afraid it would break you.”

She burst into tears.

“And you thought lying would hurt less?!”

I had never seen her like that.

Broken.

Lost.

“I thought… you only chose me because it was convenient,” she sobbed.

Every word was a knife.

“Never,” I said, taking her hands. “I’ve loved you from the first moment. I would give my life for you.”

She looked at me for a long time.

Then she whispered,

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I had no answer.

Because I was afraid.

Because I was weak.

Because I didn’t want to lose you.

That evening, Marisa left.

“I don’t want to live in this mess of a past,” she said. “It’s too heavy.”

And strangely…

I didn’t care.

Because I was sitting outside my daughter’s room, holding her while she cried on my shoulder.

And for the first time in years, we cried together.

Six months passed.

We went to therapy.

We learned to talk.

To be honest.

To rebuild.

She started drawing again.

She started laughing again.

One day, she said,

“Dad… it still hurts. But I know you never betrayed me.”

That was the greatest forgiveness.

Love isn’t perfect.

It’s made of mistakes.

Fear.

And the courage to fix them.

Even after thirteen years.