My father, Greg, moved then. He stepped forward, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. It was a heavy, warm presence—the hand of a man who had spent two decades holding the rope. He didn’t look at the DNA test. He didn’t look at the contract. He only looked at me, his eyes searching mine for any sign that I was breaking.
“Blood doesn’t make a parent, Jessica,” I said, holding the DNA test up between us. It felt light, like a leaf, compared to the weight of the man standing behind me. “This paper? It’s just data. It’s a series of biological coincidences. It doesn’t tell the story of who held me at three in the morning. It doesn’t record who worked two jobs to make sure I had a future. It doesn’t mention who stayed when it would have been so much easier—so much cheaper—to walk away.”
“Dylan, be reasonable,” she snapped, the practiced “mom” persona slipping for a fraction of a second, revealing the sharp-edged negotiator beneath. “I’m offering you a connection to your real heritage. I’m offering you a partner who understands the world you’re in now.”
“You’re nothing but a stranger who happens to share my genetics,” I countered. “And as for LaunchPad? You didn’t build it. You didn’t invest a single cent or a single second into its success. My father invested his entire life into it. Every hour he spent scrubbing floors was a seed planted in this company. Every shift he worked at that bar was an investment in me.”
