That hit harder than it should have.
Jacob was good at working a room. He laughed at the right volume, nodded like he was listening, touched his chest when someone said family—already casting himself in the role.
“So you’re Nancy’s dad?” my sister Linda asked, leaning toward him.
“Biological,” Jacob confirmed, tapping his chest. “I’m here now. Better late than never, right?”
He said it like it was charming. My fingers locked around the counter edge until my knuckles went white.
Nancy’s voice cut through from across the room, clear but not loud. “Aunt Linda,” she said, smiling. “Don’t steal all my chips.”
People laughed, but the moment clung. Linda shuffled back, still smiling, still impressed.
I looked up and caught Nancy watching me for half a second. She saw it—every bit of it—just like she always had.
I met my wife Julia when I was 34. We were old enough to say what we meant without pretending it was casual.
On our third date, she said, “I want a child. That’s not negotiable, Bruce.”
“Me too,” I agreed. I’d wanted to be a father more than anything.
