Ryan Edwards
In the morning, I went for a run, hoping it would clear my head. It didn’t. The faster I pushed my legs, the louder the thoughts got. Every sound on the street—the slap of my sneakers, the barking dog, the honking cars—became background noise to one single question
Is Isabella mine?
The thought terrified me. It thrilled me. It made me angry. It made me hopeful.
Mostly, it made me feel like a fool for not seeing it sooner.
I had her smile. Her stubborn streak. Her laugh that filled every corner of the room.
Had I really been so blind?
I tried to breathe it out, let the sweat wash it away, but it clung to me. The years I missed. The nights Lily must have cried alone. The first time Isabella walked. Her first word. Six years of moments I would never get back.
By the time
