“You always said kids would derail your plans. You were expanding the company, traveling nonstop. There was never a good moment.”
He remembered those conversations—casual, theoretical. Not this.
“They’re mine,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“Look at them.”
Silence stretched.
Finally, she slid down to the floor. “Fine. They’re yours. But that doesn’t fix anything.”
“It changes everything,” he insisted. “I can help. A better house. Healthcare. School.”
“I don’t want charity.”
“It’s not charity. I’m their father.”
She gave a hollow laugh. “A father is there at 2 a.m. with a fever. You’re just DNA.”
The words hit harder than he expected. He noticed the stacked pots, the textbooks in a cardboard box, laundry drying on a string.
“How do you manage?”
“I clean houses. Sell baked goods on weekends. We get by.”
He imagined his daughters waiting in crowded clinics, shivering through storms.
“Why did you disappear?” he asked.
“I left a letter,” she shot back. “On your office desk.”
“What letter? I never saw one.”
They froze.
“Who had access?” she whispered. “Your assistant. Or your mother.”
His stomach dropped. His mother, Eleanor Herrera, had never approved of Emily’s modest background.