22. Ethan
22
Ethan
“E than, Charlotte is your daughter.”
Ethan’s body went rigid.
His chest tightened.
A cold shock coursed through him, as if he’d been doused with icy water.
Of all the things Kara could have said, this hadn’t even crossed his mind.
She watched him, as if waiting for something—anything—from him. But the words were stuck in his throat.
“Ethan, did you hear me?”
He wanted to speak, but—
A sharp jolt pulled him from the fog as his phone rang. The shrill sound cut through the silence, grounding him in the present. His eyes flicked down to the screen.
“It’s Clyde,” Ethan muttered, almost numb.
Without thinking, he hit accept and pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
“Ethan, sorry to bother you,” Clyde said. “Just wanted to call and let you know your dog’s gotten into my yard, and he’s digging up the garden.”
“Clyde, I’m so sorry! He’s never done this before. I’ll cover anything Hero damaged.”
After he hung up, he pushed himself off of the bench and looked down at Kara. “I have to go. Hero got into the neighbor’s garden. I’ll come back, so we can talk about this. Okay?”
Kara’s voice was small. “But you will come back?”
Ethan nodded. “I will.”
He turned, leaving the rescue and heading straight to his truck. His mind was racing as he turned the key and started the drive back to the house.
Charlotte’s my daughter?
His fingers clenched around the steering wheel.
How is that even possible?
Wait.
He did a quick mental calculation , as he tried to recall if Kara had ever mentioned Charlotte’s exact age.
She had to be around twenty, right?
Their last night together over twenty years ago ... That magical evening on the beach before he left town. The memory rushed back with startling clarity. They hadn’t been careful, but—
Definitely possible.
His heart thundered.
A storm of emotion swirled in his chest as the pieces fell into place—the timing lining up perfectly.
How did I not know I had a daughter all this time?
The answer struck him: he hadn’t wanted to know.
He’d left for the army, thinking it was easier that way—for both of them. He’d changed his number and made himself unreachable, cutting off everyone—Kara, his dad, the town. And he hadn’t looked back, not once.
Memories with Charlotte over the past few days flashed through his mind like a chaotic slideshow—the easy conversations, the shared jokes during his volunteer shifts, but not once did he think to ask about her father.
Why would I?
He’d assumed Kara had met someone else, had Charlotte, and then ended up a single mother. He’d dated other women since Kara. It wasn’t unreasonable to think she’d moved on.
Now, everything felt—different. Every smile, every laugh they’d shared; it all took on new meaning. He wasn’t just someone in her life—he was the father who hadn’t been there. And the worst part? He hadn’t even known he was part of the picture because he didn’t give himself the chance to know.
The thought consumed him, drowning out everything else ...
By the time he snapped back to reality, he was already pulling into the driveway, barely remembering the drive home. Shaking off the haze, Ethan climbed out of the truck and headed over to Clyde’s place.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Ethan waited for Clyde to come to the door, but after a minute, there was no sign of him. He knocked again, then tried the door. It was unlocked. Pushing the door open slowly, Ethan stuck his head inside.
“Clyde?” Ethan called out. “You here?”
“Out back!” Clyde’s voice carried from the rear of the house. “Come on through!”
Closing the door behind him, Ethan walked through his neighbor’s house, through the kitchen, and out to the back porch.
“Ah, there you are.” Clyde sat in a rocking chair, sipping a cup of tea with Hero at his side.
When the dog spotted Ethan, he walked over wagging his tail.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Ethan said, looking down at Hero.
Clyde waved it off. “The garden will be fine, don’t worry. Sit down, why don’t you?” He gestured to the chair next to him.
Ethan sat, letting out a sigh. Hero followed, resting his head on Ethan’s knee with a soft whine.
Clyde leaned forward, studying Ethan’s face. “Everything all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Ethan forced a smile as he reached to scratch behind Hero’s ears. “I’m fine, just life.”
Clyde nodded, reaching out to pat Hero as well. “Ole boy found a hole under the fence. Once he was out, guess he figured he’d try his paw at gardening. Didn’t you, you rascal?”
Hero wagged his tail and licked Clyde’s hand, looking up at him with innocent eyes.
Ethan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel terrible. I’ll patch up that hole right away and replace anything he ruined. Just let me know what needs fixing.”
Clyde’s gaze went. “You know, this whole thing reminds me of Wrigley.”
“Wrigley?”
“Your dad’s old dog,” Clyde said softly. “Robert found him one night, wandering the streets. Took him in, nursed him back to health. That dog, he was something special. Kept your dad company for years after he got out of prison. Even got your old man to put up that fence. I think having Wrigley around gave your dad a purpose, you know?”
Ethan’s throat tightened with each word.
He blinked hard, fighting the sting in his eyes.
Doggy door. Makes sense now.
Clyde nodded, continuing. “He’d come over here and sit out on the porch with me, every once in a while, after Wrigley was gone. I think he was lonely in those last months.”
Ethan turned away from Clyde, pretending to survey the damage in the garden.
“Look, Ethan, your dad, he carried a lot of guilt. That night he drove drunk, the accident with Sarah Walker—it was inexcusable. A life was lost, a family destroyed. There’s no making that right, ever. The town never truly forgave him. But Ethan—”
“He got what was coming to him.” Ethan’s jaw clenched. “It should’ve been him, not Kara’s mom.”
“Ethan, I can’t imagine how tough it was, growing up with him like that. You had every right to leave when you did. I might’ve done the same.” Clyde reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. “But those years in prison, they broke something in him, remade him. The man who came back, he wasn’t the same Robert who went in.”
Ethan’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Well, congratulations, Clyde. You must be the only person in this town who can find anything good to say about Old Drunk Bennett.”
“I witnessed it,” Clyde insisted. “To my knowledge, he never asked for forgiveness—he knew he didn’t deserve it. But he did change his ways. As far as I know, he never touched another beer after prison. It doesn’t erase what he did, but he spent every day trying to be better.”
Clyde’s voice softened. “They say he died of liver cancer, but I know what it really was. That man died of a broken heart. He couldn’t go on knowing that he’d never be able to make it up to you—or the Walkers.”
A tear formed in Ethan’s eye, but he wiped it away quickly.
“There’s something else, Ethan. Before he passed, your dad mentioned a key. Said you’d need it someday.”
Ethan turned to him. “A key?”
Clyde shrugged. “He didn’t say much. Only that it’d be behind a picture of your favorite place. Somewhere special you two went together. Said you’d understand when the time came.”
Ethan stood abruptly. “I-I need to go. Thanks, Clyde. For everything. I’ll fix that hole in the fence, promise.”
Clyde’s eyes twinkled. “Whatever you’re looking for, Ethan, I hope you find it.”
Ethan hurried out of Clyde’s backyard gate, Hero close at his heels and his mind racing as fast as his feet. He knew where the key would be—exactly where.
Bursting through his own front door, Ethan sprinted down the hall, skidding to a stop in his bedroom. His eyes locked onto the dresser, where the framed photo had been face-down earlier. He’d straightened it during his first walk-through of the house, but barely paid attention to it at the time.
Now, he stared at the image—himself at seven or eight, standing with his dad in front of Wrigley Field, about to watch the Cubs play.
As he lifted the black frame and turned it over, something caught his eye. The backing was slightly loose.
How did I not notice it before?
With trembling fingers, heart pounding, Ethan pried the corner of the frame.
There, tucked between the backing and the photo was a small, nearly invisible, black key.