"I’ve reached out to you before," the man began, his voice calm and steady. "I’m the head of the American Association at the school you applied to."
"I had an aunt help clean the paint off you."
"This is my house in the country. I don’t come here often, maybe just a few times a year."
"Giselle, I’ve actually known you for a long time."
"My name is Cyrus Hayes, and I knew your father."
"I came to find you at his request. He’s at the school you applied to now."
His words seemed to reach into my mind, pulling out the questions I hadn’t dared ask. Each sentence was a key, unlocking answers I had almost forgotten I was waiting for.
But when he mentioned my father, everything inside me stilled. I was struck silent. It had been so long since I’d heard any news of him.
The figure of my father had faded from my life over a decade ago. If he hadn’t vanished without a trace back then, leaving my mother and me to fend for ourselves, she might never have been so heartbroken that she chose to abandon me and remarry.
For years, I had resented him, but the ache of missing him had never completely disappeared.
What would have happened if he had stayed? Maybe I would have been loved the way I had been as a child without the bitter shadow of abandonment hanging over me. Maybe I wouldn’t have met Cohen. Maybe I wouldn’t have become entangled with the Whitmore family.
The man watched me closely, noticing the rush of conflicting emotions that crossed my face. He sighed softly as if he could see through me.
Carefully, he offered me the cup of water beside him, its warmth grounding me, pulling me out of the cold memories.
"How is he now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
I had imagined countless scenarios, imagining that if I ever found him, I would let him have it, making him regret every second of his absence.
But now, all I wanted was to hear about him, to know he was well.
“He’s now a tenured professor at that school, and he’s thriving.”
"In his own words, he’s incredibly fortunate to have achieved his lifelong dream."
"Giselle, your artistic talent must have come from him."
In that instant, everything fell into place. I understood why he had left us all those years ago, why he had vanished without a word.
He was chasing his dream.
To him, my mother and I had been nothing more than burdens.
“He changed his name, didn’t he? Is that why there’s been no word of him here?”
Cyrus nodded.
When I heard his new name, a bitter laugh bubbled up inside me. How ironic it
Because of Imogen, the famous teacher she went abroad to study with was he.
And yet, his own daughter didn’t even know who he was, and was being falsely accused of plagiarism by one of his students.
Cyrus gently pried my hands off the cup, his fingers brushing over the red marks I had left from gripping it too tightly.
He sighed a deep, quiet sound.
“He thought you were doing well with the Whitmore family, so he never wanted to disturb you.”
“It wasn’t until you applied to the school, until I got your call, that he finally decided to reach out.”
“Giselle, I’ll take care of you from now on.”
I looked up at Cyrus, the sincerity in his words hitting me like a storm.
He was serious.
He had been entrusted by my father to find me.
The moment he truly came to understand me, though, was at a banquet during Cohen’s study abroad years.
At that banquet, Cohen had brought me along, and we had met briefly. They were classmates.
“So back then, you never told me you knew my father? You never told me I didn’t have to live as an outsider under someone else’s roof at the Whitmore home?”
My voice trembled, unraveling as I spoke, the dam of emotions finally breaking.
Cyrus steadied me, his presence a quiet anchor as I shook, feeling as if I might collapse at any moment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Your father thought it best not to disrupt your life. He truly believed you were happy, living well with the Whitmore family.”
Tears fell without sound, tracing the contours of my face.
Back then, I had been well, hadn’t I?
At least before Cohen and I crossed that line, everything had been fine.
