For weeks, a little girl across the street waved at me from her window. Her eyes haunted me—pleading, intense. My wife, Sandy, thought I was overthinking it, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling. One day, I crossed the street to find out who she was.
To my shock, her mother was Juliette—my ex from six years ago. And the little girl? She called me “Daddy.”
Juliette revealed she’d been pregnant when we split. She’d tried to reach me, but I had moved away. The girl, Heidi, was my daughter.
Staggered, I told Sandy. She insisted on a DNA test. Juliette was hurt, but agreed.
The result was undeniable: Heidi was mine.
Slowly, I began building a bond with my daughter. Sandy, though shaken, stood by me. “We’ve tried for kids,” she said, “Maybe this is how it was meant to happen.”
Now, every evening, Heidi waves at me—not from mystery, but from love. And I wave back, knowing I’ll never turn away from her again.
