Ten years ago, I made a decision I would regret for the rest of my life. The words I screamed that night still haunt me, echoing in my mind, cutting deeper than any blade could:
“Get out! You are not my daughter! Never come back!”

I can still see her—only fourteen, standing there in the rain, clutching a tattered backpack. She didn't defend herself or argue. She just looked at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, before slowly turning away and disappearing into the darkness, her fragile figure swallowed by the storm.

My name is Miguel Santos, and I was forty-two at the time. I thought I had it all figured out: a stable job as a construction supplier, a home filled with love, and a wife named Laura whom I adored more than anything. But that all came crashing down one cold October night when Laura died in a car accident.

As I tried to pick up the pieces, I uncovered a truth that would forever alter the course of my life: my daughter, Lily, wasn’t mine. The discovery was hidden in Laura’s drawer—letters written to a man named Daniel. Love letters from years before we married. And in one of them, a line that pierced my heart:

“For our daughter, Lily — may she always know she is loved.”

Lily. My precious little girl. The child I had raised, the one I taught to ride a bike, the one who called me “Papa” every night before bed—wasn’t mine. I had loved her, protected her, and believed she was mine. But in that moment, everything crumbled. Every memory I held dear became a lie.

In my anger and betrayal, I drowned myself in alcohol, tearing apart everything that reminded me of Laura. And when Lily came to me one evening, trembling, asking why I hadn’t eaten dinner, something inside me broke.

“Pack your things and leave!” I yelled. “You’re not my daughter! You’re her mistake!”

Lily didn’t scream. She didn’t fight back. She simply cried quietly as she left, and the house fell silent. I convinced myself that I had done the right thing, that I had cleansed my life of the betrayal. But deep inside, the silence in the house gnawed at me. Every night, I woke up, drenched in sweat, hearing phantom sobs in the hallway. The sound of rain on the window always reminded me of her footsteps.

Years went by. I became an old man, alone in an empty house. My body ached, my hands trembled, and my heart—though still beating—felt hollow. I would sometimes pass by the school Lily used to attend, imagining her running across the yard, shouting, “Papa, wait for me!” But when I turned around, she was never there. Only the wind.

And then, one afternoon, everything changed.