The house smelled wonderful—roasting turkey, cinnamon rolls warming in the oven, the kind of comfort that makes a home feel safe. Grace usually loved helping me cook, but that morning, something was different.
She walked into the kitchen slowly, her face pale and her eyes red and puffy.
“Could you mash the potatoes for me, sweetie?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
She didn’t answer.
I set down the wooden spoon and turned around. She stood in the doorway, her hands trembling at her sides.
“Dad…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I need to tell you something.”
My stomach tightened. “What is it, honey?”
She took a shaky breath, and then she said the words that made my world tilt sideways.
“I won’t be here for Thanksgiving dinner.”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “What do you mean?”
Her lip quivered. “I’m going to see my real father. You know him, Dad. He’s… he’s someone you’ve heard of. And he promised me something.”
The air left my lungs in a rush. “Your… what?”
She looked down at her feet, unable to meet my eyes. “He found me two weeks ago. On Instagram.”
And then she said his name.
Chase.
The local baseball star. The golden boy who could do no wrong on the field but left a trail of broken promises everywhere else. I’d seen him in the news, read the headlines about his comebacks and controversies. He was all charm and ego, a man who loved the spotlight more than anything—or anyone.
And I despised him.
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