I nearly dialed 911 on the tattooed teenager holding a screaming baby inside an empty 1 AM laundromat. Then his bag tore open, and my stomach sank with utter shame.

”

I hated that question.

I hated it because it was brave.

And because it had no comfortable answer.

“You are her father,” I said.

“I know.”

“No one can replace that.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looked at me then.

And there it was.

The secret fear under all the anger.

Not that Rachel would fail again.

Not only that.

But that Rachel might succeed.

That Emma might love continue reading …