He had vanished from our lives without explanation, leaving Peter and me to fend for ourselves. And now—now he was here? Heart pounding, I waited until Mia was napping, then went to the basement door. I hesitated only a moment before opening it. The man who answered looked older, frail, and worn down by life. But it was him. Jack.

He stared at me in silence, then finally said the words I never imagined I’d hear: “I’m sorry.” Later that evening, Peter and I talked. He told me the truth. Jack had returned years ago, sick and broke. Peter had been angry at first, but over time, he had let his father back into his life. When a fire destroyed Jack’s apartment three years ago, Peter and Betty quietly took him in.

They never told me—afraid of how I’d react, afraid I’d disrupt the fragile peace they had managed to create. I was furious. Hurt. Betrayed. It felt like everyone I loved had chosen him over me, the one who had stayed, the one who had never walked away. Peter tried to explain. Jack was dying. He didn’t want to lose both his parents without trying to mend at least some of the old wounds. I told them I needed time. And I do. I don’t know if I can forgive Jack. I don’t know if I ever will. But at least now, finally, I know the truth.