“I’m so sorry, baby girl,” he whispered into my hair, his voice thick.
“I’m so, so sorry. I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”
On the plane, his plane, everything was quiet. The seats were soft cream-colored leather, and a woman with a kind smile gave me a hot chocolate with whipped cream. My father didn’t let go of my hand. Not once. We talked for the first time in three years. He told me everything. He wasn’t a ghost. He was a man who had been fighting for me.
“After the divorce,” he said, his voice tight with an anger I’d never heard, “your mother made it… impossible. She moved without telling me. She changed her number. When I finally found you, she filed a restraining order. She told the police I was trying to kidnap you.”
“But… she said you left us.”
His face crumpled.
“Leah, no. Never. I would have burned the world down to get to you. But I couldn’t. The court said I had to stay away, or I’d go to jail. She weaponized the one thing she knew I loved.”
He pulled out his phone. He showed me photos.
“This is your room,” he said, swiping. It was a bedroom. A girl’s bedroom. Painted a soft blue. It had a desk, a bookshelf… and toys.
“I… I updated it every year,” he said, his voice cracking.
“For your birthday. I just… I hoped. I hoped one day you’d come home. I never stopped trying to find a legal way to get to you. I never gave up hope.”
