Chapter Seventeen
Laney
Duchess wakes me on Christmas morning, snuggling into my chest as I pull her close to me, her purr reverberating in my sternum.
I keep my eyes closed a moment longer, breathing in the peace of the cabin—pine from the garlands, the scent of woodsmoke, and underneath it all, something sweet and warm drifting from the kitchen.
Pancakes. On Christmas morning. With our limited supplies.
My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. Flour dusts Ryder’s green forearms, and he’s humming something that might be a Christmas carol. This thoughtfulness—making Christmas morning special despite everything—fills me with affection.
Today’s the day. After twenty years of believing I wasn’t worth fighting for, I’m going to call my father.
The thought should terrify me, but instead I feel…
ready. Spending Christmas Eve talking through everything with Ryder has somehow prepared me for this moment.
His quiet confidence that my father might be a good man who was prevented from seeing me, rather than someone who abandoned me willingly, has settled into my bones as truth.
Outside, snow blows off the roof, flakes sparkling in the sunlight—fresh, bright, and full of possibility.
Inside, Ryder hums under his breath as he sets a plate of pancakes in front of me, and something in my chest loosens.
Maybe new beginnings don’t always come with fanfare.
Maybe they start like this—quiet and warm and real.
He sits across from me and nods toward the phone on the counter.
”What will you say?”
“I have no idea.” I laugh, but it’s shaky around the edges. “Hi, Dad, it’s the daughter you haven’t heard from in two decades because I believed Mom when she said you didn’t want me? Is that true? If it is, well… sorry about that.”
“Hey.” Ryder’s hand covers mine across the table, his palm easily engulfing my entire hand, warm and solid and steady. His thumb strokes gently across my knuckles. “However it goes, you’re brave for trying. That matters.”
The simple support in his voice does something to my heart that I’m not ready to examine. Having someone in my corner, someone who believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself, feels like a gift I don’t deserve but desperately need.
After breakfast, we fall into our easy morning routine of checking on all the animals, but there’s an undercurrent of anticipation running through everything. The big conversation is coming—the phone call that could change everything—and we both know it.
Back in the cabin, I dig out the piece of paper with my father’s phone number, my hands surprisingly steady. The cell signal is still spotty, but strong enough for a call if I’m careful about where I stand.
“I’ll give you privacy,” Ryder says, already moving toward his coat.
“No.” The word comes out before I can think about it. “I mean, if you don’t mind staying. I think I’ll need the moral support.”
His smile is soft and sure, tusks catching the morning light as his expression fills with quiet pride. “Whatever you need.”
I dial the number, heart hammering as it rings. Once, twice, three times. Maybe he’s not home. Maybe this number is wrong. Maybe—
“Hello?” The voice is older than I remember, weathered by time, but unmistakably familiar.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “Is this… is this David Hillman?”
A pause. Then, carefully: “Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s…” I take a shaky breath. “It’s Laney. Your daughter.”
The silence that follows stretches so long I think the connection might have dropped. Or… could he have hung up on me? Then I hear what sounds like a sob, quickly muffled.
“Laney?” His voice breaks on my name. “Oh my God, Laney. Is it really you?”
“It’s really me,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I should have called sooner. I should have—”
“No.” His voice is firm despite the tears I can hear in it. “No, my Sunshine, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. I’ve been hoping for this call every day for twenty years.”
The word—sunshine—sparks something deep inside me. My breath catches. For years, that name has been a wound, a reminder of the father who left, of feeling unlovable. When Ryder first said it, I’d flinched. But hearing it now, in my father’s voice, broken with emotion and love…
“You… you still call me that?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Of course I do.” His voice cracks, thick with tears. “You were always my Sunshine, Laney. My bright, brave little girl. That never changed, not for one second in twenty years. Not even when your mother made it impossible to see you.”
The endearment that’s haunted me, that’s been twisted by loss and abandonment, suddenly feels like it’s being given back to me. Reclaimed. This is what it was supposed to mean—his little girl, his Sunshine.
Beside me, Ryder squeezes my hand gently. He understands. He’s been calling me Sunshine, not knowing it was my father’s name for me, but somehow making it new again. Making it about who I am now, not who I lost.
And just like that, twenty years of wondering and hurt and believing I wasn’t worth fighting for dissolve into something that feels like the world rearranging itself.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. There’s only the sound of breathing—his, mine, both trembling with everything we’ve lost and finally found.
“I can’t believe I’m really hearing your voice,” I whisper, tears blurring my vision. “I missed you so much.”
A soft, broken laugh crackles through the line. “I missed you more than you’ll ever know,” he says, voice thick. “For years I dreamed about hearing your voice grown up, wondering what you’d sound like. Now that you’re here, I can’t believe it’s real.”
His tone—steady, familiar—wraps around me like a memory I never stopped missing. “But Mom said you didn’t want to see me. That you’d moved on and—”
“That’s not true.” There’s pain in his voice, but also a fierce protectiveness that I remember from childhood.
“That was never true. I fought for you, Laney. I fought so hard the lawyers bankrupted me, but your mother… she made it impossible. Every time I tried to see you, there was another legal motion, another delay, another hoop to jump through.”
“I didn’t know.” The words come out broken. “She told me you didn’t want me, and it became a forbidden subject for almost twenty years. Then she got sick, and cancer took her three years ago. I never got to ask why we left so suddenly, or why we never heard from you.”
“I knew when she passed,” he says quietly. “I’ve kept tabs on you over the years through social media and public records. When I found out she was sick, I wanted to reach out so badly. But I was terrified you’d reject me after all those years.”
“Grandma tried to tell me,” I whisper. “After Mom died, after she got her own diagnosis. She tried to bring you up, but I shut her down every time. I was so angry at everyone—at you for leaving, at Mom for dying, at myself for not being worth staying for.” My voice cracks.
“And now they’re both gone, and I’ll never know the truth about why she did it. ”
There’s a long pause. “Maybe we’ll never have all the answers, Sunshine. But I can tell you this, your mother wasn’t evil. She was hurt and confused and made terrible choices from her emotions rather than her rational mind. But she loved you. I know she did.”
The words feel like a slap. “Don’t.” It comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t defend her to me. Not right now. Not when I’m just finding out my entire childhood was built on lies.”
“I’m not defending her.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t let this poison everything. You had good memories of her, too, didn’t you? Real ones?”
I think of Mom teaching me to bake cookies, reading to me every night, fierce in her protection of me against anyone who dared criticize. The memories are real, even if they’re tangled up in her manipulations.
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly.
“Then hold on to those. The good and the bad. All of it was real, even the parts built on wrong foundations. Don’t let her mistakes take away the love she showed you.”
I’m quiet for a long moment, processing this. “How can you be so… understanding? After everything she took from us?”
“Because holding onto anger won’t give us those years back. And because I don’t want to waste whatever time we have left being bitter.” His voice softens. “I’m just so grateful to hear your voice again, Sunshine. So grateful you were brave enough to call.”
“God, I’m so angry at her,” I whisper, the admission feeling like betrayal. “She stole twenty years from us. And I feel guilty for being angry because she’s gone and can’t defend herself. But I wish I could ask her why she lied.”
“We’ll never know, Laney, but believe me when I say I would never leave you willingly. Never.” His voice is steady now, sure. “You were the best thing in my life.”
We talk for an hour, filling in twenty years of gaps.
He tells me about the court battles, the lawyers who promised results they couldn’t deliver, the way the system seemed stacked against fathers without unlimited resources.
About showing up for a scheduled visitation to find our house empty, stripped bare, no forwarding address.
About the private investigator he hired, who finally tracked us down two years later—only for my mother’s lawyer to threaten him with harassment charges if he made contact.
“I sent letters,” he says, voice breaking. “Birthday cards. Christmas presents. Every single one came back ‘Return to Sender.’ I didn’t know whether she kept them from you or if you just didn’t want to answer. I didn’t know if you hated me… or if you’d already forgotten what we’d shared.”
“I never got them.” The words come out strangled. “Not one, Dad. Not one.”
The silence on the line is heavy with shared grief.