It was a freezing night, and my wife Jenna and I were enjoying cocoa, talking about baby names. Suddenly, a knock at the door interrupted us. A teen girl stood there, shivering, in nothing but a thin sweater. We brought her in without question, sensing something deeper behind her fear.

She refused to give her name and begged us not to call the police. When she went to the bathroom, I found an old ID in her jacket. The name hit me like lightning Kenzie Jane Rutherford. Dorothy’s daughter. Dorothy, the girl who once broke my heart.

Kenzie returned and confessed everything Dorothy had died in a car crash. Her stepfather left her after finding out she wasn’t his. She ran from the orphanage, hoping I was the man her mom once loved. She feared rejection but had no one else.

We took a DNA test, and the result was undeniable she was mine. Tears filled my eyes as I hugged my daughter for the first time. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. She smiled and forgave me. That night, we went home as a family, sharing pizza and a new beginning.