The old clock on the mantel ticked with deliberate precision, each second a reminder of how much time had passed—how much he'd lost. Andy Ford sat in his worn leather armchair, hands gripping the armrests too tightly for comfort. The sun dipped behind the trees outside, casting long, somber shadows across the hardwood floor of the living room. He'd been waiting nearly an hour, though he knew she wasn't late. He'd just been early. Far too early.

Anticipation clawed at his chest like an old wound reopened. He'd rehearsed what he'd say, how he'd greet her, but nothing could prepare him for the guilt of failing not just his own child, but a generation beyond. He'd buried his wife long before learning to be a father. Randy had been all he had left—and what a cruel joke that turned out to be. No matter how hard Andy tried to steer his son right, Randy never stayed on course, never listened, never cared.

He'd told himself cutting Randy off was the only choice after discovering the stolen money and forged checks. But even now, Andy couldn't shake the feeling that decision hadn't just severed his relationship with his son—it had created a ripple he hadn't seen the end of until now. The girl, Randy's stepdaughter, was the only piece of that wreckage left.

Andy leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the empty hallway leading to the front door. He checked the window again, not because he couldn't trust the time—but because he couldn't trust his nerves. She might not come. Wouldn't blame her. His stomach turned. He wasn't a sentimental man—never had been—but this moment felt heavier than anything he'd handled in his decades of business. He'd walked into boardrooms knowing his entire future was at stake without feeling this weight in his chest.

The granddaughter he never had. The child his son walked away from. The last chance to make something right. His thoughts kept drifting to her—this young woman left behind not once, but twice. Once by her father who died in military service, again by the man Andy had raised. She'd grown up with nothing, working jobs when she should've been dreaming, caring for a dying mother when she should've been going to dances or studying for midterms. And all the while, Andy had been sitting here—retired, comfortable, and alone—completely unaware of her existence until a phone call gave him her name.

A sound from the driveway. Andy shot up, suddenly unsteady on his feet. He paced briefly before freezing as he heard soft footsteps on the porch. He wasn't ready. He'd never be ready. As the doorbell rang, Andy closed his eyes, heart thudding painfully against his ribs. Then slowly, his weathered hand gripped the metal door handle. The world outside seemed to pause as he managed a soft, tired smile—the smile of a man who'd been holding his breath for years.

"Hi, you came," Andy said, voice softer than he expected. He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Please, come on in."

He wanted to say something meaningful, something to make her feel safe, but his throat tightened. Instead, he gestured toward the living room, suddenly unsure of everything—the furniture, the lighting, even the smell of the house.

"I'm sorry about your loss," he swallowed hard. "You must've... gone through a lot." Andy hesitated, then took a cautious step toward her, carefully pulling her into a hug. He didn't care they didn't share blood. To him, she was family.

Slowly releasing her, he offered a reassuring smile. "Make yourself at home. This is your home now. Come in, let me show you to your room."