Then, three years after he disowned me, my father called. “I heard you have children,” he said coldly. “I’m coming tomorrow. You have one chance to come back. Say no, and I’m gone for good.” The next morning, he pulled up in his sleek black car, wearing a sharp suit that looked out of place against our gravel driveway.

He stepped inside, looked around at the hardwood floors Lucas had laid, the toys in the corner, the photos on the walls—and went silent.

“You’re not struggling,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. Then he left. But he didn’t drive away. For three hours, he sat in his car, head in his hands. When he finally came back to the door, he looked like a different man—tired, broken, emotional.

“I was wrong,” he said through tears. “I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t see that you were building something I should’ve been proud of all along.” We cried. We talked. And I forgave him. When the triplets waddled in, one of them looked up and asked, “Grandpa?” My father dropped to his knees, eyes wet, and whispered, “Yes. Grandpa’s here now.”