The wheels touched down in New York, and Justin barely registered the landing. His mind was racing. Of all his girls, Lila seemed the kindest—the type to listen. A nurse, empathetic, steady. If anyone might give him a chance, Justin hoped, it would be the daughter who healed others.
He made his way to the hospital Lila worked at, palms sweaty and stomach roiling. At the hospital, Justin didn’t mention who he was. Just that he was an old friend looking to speak to Lila Wilson. The receptionist nodded and asked him to wait. Justin sat down, clutching his coat, trying to calm the rhythm in his chest that felt too loud, too fast.
The wait was suffocating. Every second stretched like rubber bands pulled too tight. Then he saw her—Lila, tall and confident in scrubs, walking toward him with a calm, polite smile. Justin’s chest tightened. His daughter. She looked so much like Lucy it made Justin dizzy.
“Hi,” Justin said, rising to meet her. “I’m Justin. Justin Smith.” Lila tilted his head, puzzled. “Hi, Justin. Do I know you?” There was warmth in her voice, but no recognition. That warmth cut deeper than contempt would have. Justin’s throat tightened. She didn’t recognize him. Of course she didn’t.