Dad sank into a kitchen chair and covered his face. “Hannah, thirty-nine years ago, before I met your mother, I had a son. I never told anyone. His name is Daniel, and I walked away from him when his mother and I split up.” I gripped the banister, unable to breathe. Owen stepped closer, pale and shaking. “I found him last year,” he said quietly.

Owen reached into his jacket and drew out a small velvet box, then a folded photograph. “I wanted your whole family to be ready before I asked you anything. I went behind your back, and I am sorry.” In the photograph, a tall man stood smiling beside a little boy with my father’s chin. Then headlights swept across the kitchen window, and someone knocked on the front door.