There it was. Not an acknowledgment of my pain. Not an ounce of remorse for his absence. Just a paranoid obsession with how the public saw his immaculate reputation.

“Dad,” I interrupted, cutting through the rising lecture. “I’m standing on a balcony on my honeymoon morning with my wife and my daughter. Say what you actually called to say, or I’m hanging up.”

The line went quiet. Then he snagged on a single word. “Daughter?”

I looked through the glass. Lily had maple syrup smeared across her chin and one pink sock slipping off her foot.

“Yes,” I said. “Daughter.”

“She is not legally—”