“Those are only for my real grandchild.” My mother lifted the plate of fries above my four-year-old son’s reach and said it loudly enough for the entire backyard to hear.

The address was on the third letter from 2022.

Miller Electrical Contracting. 1412 East Industrial Parkway, Suite B.

I sat in my car in the parking lot of a small commercial park on the east side of the city. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, orange shadows across rows of corrugated metal warehouses, plumbing supply shops, and auto-body garages.

My hands were glued to the steering wheel. My heart was pounding so hard against my ribs I could barely breathe.

What if he was married?

What if he had other children?

What if, after five years of silence, he had finally moved on, buried the memory of the girl who supposedly signed away her rights and told him to go away, and built a life where we were nothing more than an old ghost?

I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My hair was tied back in a messy clip, my eyes were rimmed with red from crying, and I was wearing my work apron dusted with stray hair clippings and bleach stains.

I looked like a woman who had spent five years surviving.

I opened the car door and stepped out into the humid evening air.

Suite B was at the end of the second building. A clean, silver Ford F-250 pickup truck sat parked in front of the bay door, the side panel painted with neat, professional lettering: Miller Electrical Contractors LLC. Commercial & Residential.

The side door was propped open with a brick. The sound of a radio playing country music floated out into the quiet gravel yard, mixed with the sharp, rhythmic metallic clink of someone working with hand tools.

I stepped over the threshold onto the polished concrete floor.

The warehouse smelled like copper wire, plastic insulation, machine oil, and sawed pine. Rows of neatly organized bins held conduits, breakers, and heavy industrial gear.

Standing at a high workbench at the back of the bay was a man.

He was taller than I remembered, his shoulders broader, wearing a grease-stained grey work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was cropped short, dark brown with tiny flecks of silver near the temples that hadn't been there when he was twenty-three.

He was adjusting a wire stripper on a heavy copper cable.

"We're closed for retail walk-ins," he called out without turning around, his voice deep, gravelly, and instantly recognizable. "If you need a quote, leave a card on the desk by the door and I'll call you at eight tomorrow—"

He turned around to wipe his hands on a shop rag.

The rag slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor.

Jesse froze.

The country music kept playing on the small radio behind him. The neon clock on the wall hummed softly.