Robert's eyes narrow. "You comparing my relationship with my daughter to a football game?"
"I'm comparing it to life. We all fumble sometimes. The question is whether we get back up and keep playing or stay down and let the clock run out." I gesture around the hospital room. "You've got a second chance here. Your heart gave you a warning, but you're still in the game. How do you want to spend the time you have left?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on something beyond the window. When he speaks, his voice is rougher, more vulnerable. "She left. Didn't even say goodbye. Just disappeared."
"She was scared. Pregnant. Probably thought she was protecting you from scandal or shame or whatever eighteen-year-old girlsthink about." I lean back in the chair. "But she's here now. She came back when you needed her."
"Too little, too late."
"Is it?" I think about Lily, about how close I came to missing out on knowing her entirely. "I became a father just a few weeks ago. And already I know with absolute certainty that I'd regret wasting a single day being angry at my daughter instead of loving her. Life's too damn short for that kind of stubbornness."
Robert's fingers drum against the bed rail, a nervous gesture that reminds me of Mia when she's thinking. The resemblance between them is striking now that I'm looking for it. Same bone structure, same intensity in their eyes, same set to their jaw when they're being defensive.
"She's got your stubbornness too, you know," I add with a slight smile. "Drives us all crazy sometimes."
"Us?" Robert's gaze sharpens, focusing on me with laser precision. "How many of you are there exactly?"
The question hangs in the air like a fumbled snap, and I realize I've just walked myself right into the trap.
Robert sits up straighter, and despite the hospital gown and the IV in his arm, he suddenly looks formidable. "You said you're one of her friends.Oneof them. So let me ask you directly, Mr. Morgan." His voice drops, rough as gravel. "Are you one of the men sleeping with my daughter?"
I hesitate, and that's all the answer he needs.
"I want the truth," Robert says, his blue eyes boring into mine. "About all of them. All of you. Whatever the hell is going on with my daughter and these men." He pauses, his jaw set in a hardline. "You tell me everything right now, or you can get the hell out of my room."
47
MIA
Saturday morning at Riverside Park, I push Corey on the swing while Rory hangs upside down from the monkey bars, laughing at something only nine-year-olds find hilarious.
"Higher, Mom!" Corey shouts.
I push harder, watching him soar. For a moment, I let myself forget about Kyle's manufactured evidence, the school board investigation, and my father's rejection.
"Mom, when can we see Grandpa Robert again?" Rory drops from the monkey bars, brushing wood chips from his hands. "He promised to tell us more firefighter stories."
The question hits like a physical blow. "Grandpa isn't feeling well right now, sweetheart. He needs to rest."
The lie tastes bitter. My father isn't just sick, he's rejected me completely, and by extension, his grandsons. But how do I explain that to two nine-year-olds who just met their grandfather?
"Is it because of us?" Rory's voice is small. "Did we do something wrong?"
"No!" I kneel in front of him, gripping his shoulders. "Absolutely not. Grandpa Robert loves you both. He's just dealing with some grown-up stuff that has nothing to do with you."
We spend another hour at the park, but the joy has leaked out of the morning. The twins are quieter on the drive home, sensing something is wrong.
Back at the apartment, I set them up with video games and retreat to my bedroom with my laptop. The guilt from lying to my sons fuels a different kind of determination. If I can't fix things with my father, at least I can protect my children from Kyle Jorgenson.
I start with a basic Google search of Kyle's name, then dig deeper through social media, news archives, and public records. The pattern emerges slowly, like a photograph developing in a darkroom.
Kyle attended Westbrook Preparatory Academy before Riverside. A deeper search through local news archives reveals a brief mention of a teacher filing a restraining order against a student. No names are listed, but the timeline matches Kyle's enrollment. After some digging and sleuthing, I find the teacher's name: Jennifer Matthews, now teaching at a school three towns away.
My hands shake as I compose a message explaining my situation. Within an hour, she responds.
I wondered when someone would reach out about Kyle. Can you meet tomorrow morning? There's a coffee shop called The Daily Grind in Millbrook. Ten a.m.?
I confirm immediately, then continue my research. Kyle's second school was Riverside Prep. He lasted less than a year before transferring to Riverside Academy. Again, no official explanation, but I find a mention in the school newspaper about a senior girl who transferred mid-year after "personal circumstances."
