I raised my daughter alone. Braided her hair before school. Waited outside ballet classes. When she got into college, I cried like a fool in the car.
Four years later, I was front row for her graduation — best shirt, shaking hands, roses in hand. But before the ceremony, she came to me looking serious and shocked me by saying, “Dad, you need to go home now. I don’t want you here!”
I blinked. “Sweetie, what do you mean? It’s your graduation! I need to be here!”
“No, it’s impossible because you…” She took a shaky breath, her eyes filling with tears that didn’t look like tears of joy. “Because you aren’t my father. You’re my kidnapper.”
The world stopped. The noise of the bustling campus, the laughter of other families, the rustle of the roses in my hand—it all went silent.
“What?” I whispered, my voice cracking.
“I did a DNA test,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “For a biology project. It didn’t match, Dad. Or… whoever you are. And then I searched the missing persons database. I found me. I found Sarah. My name isn’t Lily, is it?”
I looked at her, the young woman I had nursed through fevers, taught to drive, and held when her heart was broken. I saw the fear in her eyes, and it broke me.
“Lily, listen to me—”
“Don’t call me that!” she snapped, stepping back. “My parents… my real parents are on their way. They’ve been looking for me for twenty years. You stole me from a park. How could you?”
I dropped the roses. They hit the concrete with a soft thud, petals scattering like drops of blood.
“I didn’t steal you,” I said, my voice steady now, though my heart was hammering. “I saved you.”
She froze, confusion flickering across her face. “What lie are you going to tell me now?”
“I didn’t take you from a park,” I said softly. “I took you from a crack house on 4th Street. Your ‘real’ parents weren’t looking for you, Lily. They were looking for their next fix. They left you in a crib for three days without food. You were screaming. The neighbors ignored it. The police ignored it. I was the landlord. I went in to collect rent, and I found you.”
“You’re lying,” she sobbed. “They’re wealthy. They’re lawyers. I spoke to them!”
“They are now,” I said sadly. “People change. They got clean a year after you were gone. They got their lives together. They became successful. But back then? If I had left you there one more hour, you wouldn’t be standing here graduating today. You would have been a statistic.”
I reached into my jacket pocket—not for a weapon, but for a folded, yellowed piece of paper. I handed it to her.
“I knew this day might come,” I said. “That’s the police report I filed the day I took you. I never turned it in because they told me you’d just go into the system, and I knew the system would chew you up. So I ran. I gave up my life, my name, and my home to give you yours.”
She took the paper. Her hands shook as she read the scribbled notes, the date, and the detailed description of the condition she was found in. She looked up, her eyes wide, darting from the paper to the expensive car pulling up to the curb. A well-dressed couple stepped out, looking anxious and hopeful.
“They’re here,” she whispered.
I forced a smile. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “They can give you things I never could, Lily. Connections. Money. A legacy. Maybe they really have changed. Maybe they deserve a second chance.”
I turned to walk away. “I’m just the guy who braided your hair. Go be Sarah.”
I took three steps before I heard the sound of heels running on pavement. A hand grabbed my arm, pulling me back with surprising strength.
I turned around. She wasn’t looking at the wealthy couple. She was looking at me. She tore the yellowed paper in half and let the pieces fall to the ground.
“My name is Lily,” she said, her voice fierce. “And I don’t want them at my graduation. I want my dad.”
She linked her arm through mine, squeezing tight. “Now pick up those roses, old man. We’re going to be late.”
