He told himself it didn’t matter.
But now—
“Where’s your mother?” he asked.
Mia hesitated.
“She’s… sick,” she said. “We stay nearby.”
The light turned green behind him. Cars honked.
Ethan didn’t move.
“Follow her,” he told the driver.
The streets narrowed as they left the main road, the buildings growing older, quieter, forgotten.
Mia led them to a small, crumbling apartment tucked between two abandoned shops.
She stopped at the door, unsure now.
“You don’t have to come,” she said.
But Ethan was already stepping out of the car.
Inside, the room was dim and smelled faintly of medicine and damp air.
And on a narrow bed near the window—
Lena.
She looked thinner, older, but unmistakably her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then her eyes widened.
“Ethan…?” she whispered.
The name hung in the air like something fragile.
He stepped closer, his voice tight.
“You left,” he said. “No explanation. No trace.”
Lena closed her eyes briefly.
“I didn’t leave because I wanted to,” she said softly.
Mia stood quietly by the door, watching.
Ethan’s gaze flickered between them.
“She’s eight,” he said. “Lena… is she—”
“Yes,” Lena interrupted, her voice trembling.
“She’s yours.”