The room was quiet, with only the sound of the faint rustling of paper. She had just walked in, her face a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity. “Do you need help with something?” I asked, glancing up from my work.
“Yeah,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly. “This is you, right?”
I froze. She was holding up a picture. “Where’d you get that picture?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
The answer was a gut punch. “That’s my daughter,” she said. “That’s me.”
“No!” I responded quickly, trying to stop this madness. “Come on. Stop this. I don’t have time for this.”
But she kept talking, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. “Please, look at my hair sticking up when you said that,” she said, as if pleading for some recognition. I couldn’t understand why this was happening.
“Please stop,” I begged. “It’s not… it’s not right. It’s wrong if you’re pretending to be my… my long-lost daughter.” The words felt foreign to me, but they escaped anyway. “Why would I… why would I have this picture? It’s not possible.”
“Let me see that, please,” she said, now staring at the image I couldn’t let go of. I hesitated before handing it to her. “How old are you?” I asked, trying to focus on something real, something I could grasp.
“27,” she answered softly, as though the weight of the moment was pushing her words out.
“I’ve just had this in my scrapbook and I didn’t know who you were,” she explained, her eyes searching mine.
It felt as if the room was spinning. “What do you live? What were you like?” I asked, feeling more confused by the second.
“My aunt,” she answered. “I think… I don’t really know.” Her voice cracked as she continued. “Are you 27?” she repeated, as if trying to convince herself.
I nodded, my hands shaking. “Do you know anything about your parents?”
She paused. “No,” she said quietly. “She said she was my aunt. She said my parents died in a car crash.”
I felt my heart drop. This was getting worse, not better. “What’s your name?” I asked, suddenly wanting to get a grip on something in this whirlwind.
“Amy,” she answered, her voice full of uncertainty.
I stared at her for a moment. “Amy, you’re 27, and you don’t know anything about your family?”
“No,” she repeated. “Just my aunt… and my parents. They died in a car crash.”
Then the pieces began to fall into place. “But you’re alive,” I whispered. “You’re alive, Amy. How are you—how is this possible?”
She looked at me, still confused. “I think so,” she said. “I don’t know.”
It hit me like a thunderbolt. “Wait. Wait a minute,” I said, taking a step back. “We gave you up for adoption. We had no choice. We were young, and we couldn’t provide for you. But you’re alive.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m alive?” she whispered.
I could barely contain the emotions flooding through me. “Your name is Amy. And you’re 27.” I felt like I was in a dream.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Can I… can I hold you?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Can you call me dad?”
She hesitated for a moment, then softly said, “I don’t know, but I can hug you.”
I took her in my arms, holding onto her tightly as if letting go would mean losing her forever.
“How did you find me?” I asked, wanting to understand how this miracle was possible.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just saw you here. I’ve kept that picture in my back pocket for a long time. When I saw you, it freaked me out. I’m in law school, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Law school?” I said, trying to grasp it all. “Tell me more.”
“I’m in law school too,” she explained, “and my boyfriend, Jeff, is with me. We’re both studying to become lawyers.”
My heart skipped again, this time with the thought of what she had just said. “And I’m pregnant,” she added, as if it were the most natural thing to say.
Pregnant. My daughter—my Amy—was pregnant.
I could barely breathe. “You’re going to be a grandfather,” she said, almost as if trying to make it real for me.
The words hung in the air. “Whoa,” I muttered, still trying to process it all. “Can I hold you again?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s early. I haven’t told anyone.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “Can you forgive me? Can you forgive me for not being there for you?”
She smiled through her tears. “Yes,” she said. “I never even thought I’d see you again.”
“I’m so sorry, Amy. You look just like your mother,” I said, choking on the words.
The pain, the guilt, the years of missing her, all flooded back. It was hard to talk about, but I knew we needed to.
“She died in that car crash when I was a baby,” I said, struggling to explain. “But they thought I wouldn’t survive, and someone had to take care of you. Your mom’s sister did. She raised you.”
We stood there for a moment, silence hanging between us. Then I added, “You look so much like your mother.”
I turned towards the door. “Let’s go outside. Let’s talk.”
As we stepped into the light, I knew that everything had changed. I was no longer a man lost in time. I had found my daughter, and the future, though uncertain, had suddenly become full of possibility.
