And that’s when the ghost started to stir.
In the quiet moments after a big speech or a successful funding round, the image of that auburn-haired woman from the photograph would flicker in my mind. For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to wonder: Does she see me? Does she see the headlines? Does she see the name “Dylan Miller” and feel a sharp, sudden pang of what-could-have-been?
I wondered if she felt pride, or if she felt the same cold, clinical indifference she’d shown in that Jacksonville hospital room twenty-two years ago. I felt like a traitor for even thinking about her while my father sat at home, still drinking the coffee I brewed for him, still humble, still the man who stayed. I didn’t know that the “ghost” was about to become very, very real, and that she wasn’t coming back for the son she’d lost—she was coming back for the success he’d built.
Chapter 4: The Arrival of a Ghost with a Contract
