Page 165 of Dying to Meet You

“What? Why am I hearing about this only now?”

He reaches across the sofa and tips me carefully over, so my head is in his lap. And then he smooths my hair away from my face and starts talking. “I definitely heard the name Wincott a few times when I was growing up. Whispered conversations. Didn’t think much about it.”

“And... ?”

He shrugs. “And some guy sent us checks every month for most of my childhood. But then the checks stopped. And my mother got pretty desperate. That’s when I heard the name Wincott one more time—one night when she was on the phone. ‘That asshole died,’ she said. ‘Wincott died and I can’t make the rent.’ ”

I remember to exhale.

“So, yeah, I had a hunch that I finally knew my father’s name. But it didn’t matter, Ro. He was just a name and a check. He never once met me. Never showed up to a Little League game. Some kids are just trained not to ask, you know? You’re nobody. No father will claim you. And it’s better not to ask, because the truth won’t sound very good.”

It’s hard to swallow, because I realize I did this to Natalie, too. My silence made the topic shameful, whether I meant it to or not.

“So, yeah, I don’t feel a lot of sympathy for Beatrice. But at least I understand her deep well of crazy. She spent her life kissing up to the Wincotts, waiting for the moment they’d claim her for real. Somehow, she convinced herself that if she was a really good little soldier, they’d make her a copy of the key to the castle.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch. And then Kovak follows his own trail of breadcrumbs, tries to interview her, and says he’s going to blow her father’s reputation sky high.” He snaps his fingers. “And just like that, she breaks.”

“That sounds plausible.”

He smooths my hair away from my face. “It’s just my take. But I know what mistakes you can make when someone tells you that you don’t matter. It’s an ugly cycle. I did the same thing to you and Natalie. And I’llalways regret it. But I don’t need any of Hank’s money. I’m getting my life back together without his help.”

My eyes feel hot, because I believe him. I’m still mad that he wrote us off. But I can understand how it happened. “Seems like you’re campaigning pretty hard for Father of the Year. I think you’ll get Natalie’s vote.”

“Yours counts, too,” he says softly. “Actually, there’s something I need to show you, and I haven’t found the right moment. Can I show you now?”

“Sure, as long as it isn’t a piano concerto you want me to play.” I sit up, taking care not to bump my cast.

“Yeah, Lefty. I know.” He leaves the sofa for a minute, fetching something out of his room.

Is it weird that I’ve come to think of it as his?

He returns a moment later, holding a passport. No, it’s an old-style bankbook. But he doesn’t hand it to me. “Fifteen years ago, I did a thing, and at the time it felt like an inevitable decision. But I don’t know anymore.” He sits down and flops the booklet into my lap. “I’m not sure you heard, but your parents offered me money to sign away any parental relationship with Natalie.”

Oh. “I did know that. My mother told me.”

He rubs his forehead. “Okay, well. Your mother said it was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do,” I repeat slowly.

“She said it would be easier on you if I broke off contact and just disappeared. That you could start over. I didn’t want her blood money, so I put it in Natalie’s name. For college. And I’ve been adding to it with my gig money, which is peanuts. But there’s, like, seven grand in there now. It’s in her name.”

I press my hands against my mouth and taste bile in the back of my throat.

He frowns. “You don’t have to give it to her now. You could wait until she’s older.”

I swallow hard and flip open the booklet with my good hand. It’s a passbook savings account from Fore River Savings Bank. The balance isaround seven grand, like he said. And the most recent deposit was just last month. One hundred dollars.

The account’s owner is my daughter, with Harrison listed as the custodian.

“She told me you took the money,” I whisper. “Didn’t even put up a fight.”

“Well, I didn’t,” he says quietly. “She said that Natalie deserved a father who wasn’t behind bars. And that if you two had a real chance at happiness, it was selfish of me to stand in your way. I believed her, honey.”

“Shit.” I drop the bankbook onto the coffee table just as an inconvenient tear rolls down my face. “I loved you so much. All I needed was for you to love me back.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “But I had a voice in my head telling me I was never good enough for you. And, uh, your mother’s actual voice saying the same thing. She’s not here to defend herself, Ro, so I feel bad saying all this. But she told me I was a terrible father.”