Page 79 of Ebbing Tides

He stopped in his tracks.

“I’m sorry,” I said, filling the silence with my voice. “I know I have no idea who you are, but if you knew Lilly and you obviously know my father, then I’m assuming you would probably know if she had a baby about forty-nine years ago.”

His head hung, and I swore his back hunched just a little more.

“I only just found out about her today,” I went on, unsure why I was even bothering. “I had no idea. My whole life … goddammit, my whole fucking life, I had no—”

“Lilly is my daughter,” the old man finally said, his voice now as broken as his body. “And she was just barely twenty years old when she gave birth to a baby boy.”

With a deep exhale, I closed my eyes. It was true. Fuck, I had read the letter, I’d heard my father speak the words, but my parents—the people who had raised me—were arguably not the most sane people on the planet. They could’ve been lying. They could’ve been delusional. But this old man, I knew without knowing him, was sharp-witted and of sound mind.

And he was my grandfather.

“Thank you,” I finally said, moments passing since he’d last spoken.

I opened my eyes to watch as he nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I said once again. “I’ll leave you to be with your daughter.”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets as I readied myself to hurry away when he glanced over his shoulder.

“You said your name is Max?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, looking at his face and trying to find a shred of myself in any of his features. “Maxwell Benjamin Tailor.”

He grunted, and I thought maybe I had caught the softest, faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“She named you after me,” he said, his voice gentle.

I swallowed, rolling my lips between my teeth. The sudden realization that this man, this stranger, this other Max, was my family.

I have a grandfather. Could I have other siblings? Cousins? Aunts, uncles?

In my pocket, my phone vibrated once again.

Slowly, the old man turned to face me, giving me his full attention, and the relief I felt was enough to make me cry.

“Tell me something, Maxwell Benjamin Tailor.”

I nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you a good man?”

The hope in his eyes was reminiscent of my own. He was looking for something, and I wondered how long he'd been searching for it. Wondered how long he'd been wondering.

You could've found out years ago, I thought of saying.

He could've reached out, could've contacted me. I'd been a grown man for decades now, and where the hell had he been for all that time?

But there is more to this story, I reasoned. I'd only just found out about the woman who had given birth to me, I had only just met him, and it was impossible to pack forty-eight years of history into just a few hours.

So, I simply replied, “I'm a better man than the one who raised me.”

Maxwell Benjamin Meyer lifted his chin, seeming satisfied with that response. Then he studied me. Not with the horrified expression he'd exhibited before, but one of approval, pride, and I tried not to let it get to my head. Tried not to puff my chest up with a feeling I'd seldom known in my years of living. But, dammit, it felt good, and I wanted to curl up inside this moment far longer than I knew I'd be allowed. I wanted to live in it and revel in knowing that a man who'd known me for all of two minutes could look at me with more pride than my father could ever muster.

Then the old man nodded and hung his head again, dropping back down to his hunched-over height.

“I'm sorry I couldn't have known you,” he said. “My daughter …” He glanced toward her grave. “Maybe I shouldn't tell you this.”