I spent two years imagining the day Dorian would finally meet our daughter. In my head, there was a helicopter, a stunned smile, and Wren whispering “Daddy” after seeing his photograph. When the helicopter landed outside my house, I almost believed I had been given the ending I wanted. Dorian stepped out looking older, shaken, and impossibly familiar.
Wren ran toward me, then pointed at him with the same curious smile she had practiced in front of the mirror. For one perfect second, everything felt right. Then Dorian said something that made my stomach drop: he had already known about her. Not that morning. Not weeks ago. Almost a year ago. He said my letter had reached him, but only after his father died. I stared at him, unable to understand why he had waited so long. Then he opened his briefcase and placed a blue folder on my table.
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