“I know, Dad.”
He looked away quickly.
Then he nodded.
“I don’t know how any of this gets fixed.”
“Neither do I.”
He took a breath.
“But I want you to know something.”
I waited.
“Finding your father doesn’t mean you lose me.”
My throat tightened.
“I know.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me an old manila envelope.
“I’ve kept this for years.”
Inside were papers from a lawyer.
An unfinished adoption petition.
Morty’s name.
My name.
The documents were dated when I was seven.
“I wanted to adopt you,” he said. “Make it official.”
I looked up.
“Why didn’t you?”
He sighed.
“Your mother said she wanted you to keep your biological father’s name.”
I stared at the papers.
“The lawyer told me we’d need to address his parental rights properly. I thought he was gone. Your mother said it was too painful to revisit.”
Morty looked toward the house.
“I understand now why she didn’t want to.”
I folded the documents carefully.
He placed a hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t regret raising you, Tory. Not one minute.”
I looked at him.
“Neither do I.”
We hugged in the cold driveway.
For a moment, I was a little boy again, holding onto the man who’d always been there.
Then I climbed into my truck.
I had two fathers.
One who had raised me.
And one who had spent twenty-five years trying to find me.
I didn’t know how to hold both truths yet.
But I was going to try.
Three days later, I called Derek Tygan.
I was sitting in my truck outside a grocery store.
The parking lot lights reflected off the snow, and a shopping cart rolled slowly across the pavement in the wind.
I stared at the number for several minutes.
Then I pressed call.
It rang twice.
A man answered.
“Hello?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
“Hello?”
I took a breath.
“Is this Derek?”
“Yes.”
My hands began shaking.
“This is Tory.”
Silence.
Then I heard him inhale sharply.
“Tory?”
“Yeah.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, very quietly, “Hi, son.”
I closed my eyes.
I had imagined that moment in a hundred different ways during the previous week.
I thought I’d ask questions.
Demand explanations.
Tell him how much time we’d lost.
Instead, all I could manage was, “Hi.”
He gave a small, unsteady laugh.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see me.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
His voice broke.
“That’s good.”
We spoke for only a few minutes.
He told me he still lived near Scranton.
He worked in heating and air conditioning.
He was married.
He had a daughter.
My half-sister.
Her name was Aubriana.
I stared through the windshield.
I had a sister.
A whole family I’d never met.
Derek asked whether I’d like to meet.
I said yes.
We chose a diner in Binghamton, roughly halfway between our homes.
He said he knew a place that served excellent rice pudding.
I laughed.
It was a small, ordinary detail.
And somehow, it made the conversation feel real.
Before we hung up, Derek said, “Tory?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve waited a long time for this call.”
I swallowed.
“I know.”
He paused.
“I don’t want to rush you. We can take this however slowly you need.”
I looked down at my hands.
“Thanks.”
Then he said the words that stayed with me all week.
“I’m just glad you’re here.”
We met the following Saturday.
I arrived twenty minutes early.
The diner had chrome trim, red vinyl booths, and a long counter where an elderly man was reading the newspaper over coffee.
I chose a booth near the back.
I ordered coffee.
I didn’t drink it.
At two minutes before noon, a man entered wearing a brown work jacket and a Penn State baseball cap.
He was shorter than I’d expected.
Stocky.
Gray goatee.
He carried a shoebox beneath one arm.
He stopped inside the doorway and looked around.
Then he saw me.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
I stood.
He walked toward me slowly.
When he reached the booth, he stopped.
“Hi.”
I looked at his face.
He had my ears.
The exact same shape.
I smiled despite myself.
“Hi.”
He set the shoebox beside him and sat down.
For several minutes, neither of us knew what to say.
Then the waitress arrived.
He ordered coffee.
She asked whether we wanted food.
We both said not yet.
After she left, Derek looked at me.
“So you’re a pipefitter.”
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
He smiled.
“I work on heating systems.”
“I know. Grandma told me.”
He leaned forward.
“What kind of systems do you work on?”