Chapter One Hundred Twenty: The Search
David could not stop thinking about Thomas.
His real father. A man he had never met. A man who might not even know he existed. A man who had loved David's mother but could not leave his wife. A man who had walked away and never looked back.
Or had he?
David sat in the guest room of the penthouse, the letter from his mother in his hands, reading it for the hundredth time.
Your real father was a man named Thomas. He was kind and gentle and he loved me. But he was married. He couldn't leave his wife. He couldn't be with me.
That was all she had written. No last name. No address. No way to find him.
David looked up at Lina, who was sitting in the doorway.
"I need to find him," he said.
Lina walked into the room and sat beside him.
"Thomas?" she asked.
David nodded. "My real father. I need to know who he is. I need to know if he knows about me."
Lina was quiet for a moment. "That could be dangerous. He might not want to be found. He might have a family. He might not want you in his life."
David's eyes filled with tears.
"I know," he said. "But I need to know. I can't spend the rest of my life wondering."
Lina took his hand.
"Then we'll find him," she said. "Together."
---
The search began with Katherine.
She had known David's mother. She had known Victor. She might know something about Thomas.
Lina called her that night.
"Katherine," she said, "do you remember a man named Thomas? Someone David's mother knew after Victor?"
Katherine was quiet for a moment. "Thomas. Thomas something. I don't remember his last name. He was married. He had children. He couldn't leave them."
Lina's heart ached. "Do you know where he lived? Where he worked?"
Katherine thought about it. "He was a professor. At the university. History, I think. That's all I remember."
Lina wrote it down.
"Thank you," she said. "That's a start."
---
David spent days at the university library, searching through old records.
He looked through yearbooks. He looked through faculty directories. He looked through newspaper articles. He looked for any mention of a man named Thomas who had taught history.
On the third day, he found something.
A photograph. A man in his thirties, with kind eyes and a gentle smile, standing in front of a classroom. The caption read: Professor Thomas Ashworth, Department of History, 1985.
Thomas Ashworth.
David wrote down the name.
His hands were shaking.
---
Lina helped David search for Thomas Ashworth online.
They found an obituary from ten years ago. Thomas Ashworth had died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-two. He was survived by his wife, Margaret, and his three children.
David stared at the screen.
"He's dead," he said.
Lina put her arm around him. "I'm sorry."
David shook his head. "I didn't even get to meet him. I didn't even get to ask him why."
Lina's heart ached. "Maybe his family knows. Maybe they can give you answers."
David looked at her. "Do you think they'll want to talk to me? I'm a stranger. I'm a secret. I'm proof that their father had an affair."
Lina was quiet for a moment. "Maybe. But you'll never know unless you try."
---
David wrote a letter to Margaret Ashworth.
Dear Mrs. Ashworth,
You don't know me. My name is David Reyes. I believe your husband, Thomas, was my father.
I'm not writing to ask for money. I'm not writing to cause trouble. I'm writing because I need to know the truth. I need to know who my father was. I need to know if he knew about me.
I know this is painful. I know this is a surprise. I'm sorry for that.
But please. I've been searching for answers my whole life. You're the only one who can give them to me.
—David
He mailed the letter the next day.
---
The reply came a week later.
Dear David,
I knew about you. Thomas told me. Before we got married. He said he had made a mistake. He said he was sorry. He said he would spend the rest of his life making it up to me.
I was angry. I was hurt. But I loved him. So I forgave him.
He never forgot about you. He talked about you sometimes. Wondered where you were. Wondered if you were happy.
He wanted to reach out. But he was afraid. Afraid of hurting me. Afraid of hurting his children. Afraid of hurting you.
I'm sorry you never got to meet him. He was a good man. He made mistakes. But he was good.
If you want to know more, you can visit. I'll tell you about him. I'll show you photographs. I'll answer your questions.
—Margaret
David read the letter twice.
Then he set it down and buried his face in his hands.
Lina sat beside him.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
David looked up. His eyes were red, his face wet with tears.
"I'm going to visit her," he said. "I need to know."
---
Lina drove David to Margaret Ashworth's house.
It was a small house on a quiet street, with a garden full of flowers and a porch swing that creaked in the wind.
Margaret was waiting at the door.
She was older now, her hair gray, her face lined. But her eyes were kind.
"David," she said. "You look like him."
David's eyes filled with tears.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
Margaret stepped aside.
"Please," she said. "I've been waiting for you."
---
They sat in the living room, surrounded by photographs of a family David had never known.
Margaret showed him pictures of Thomas—as a young man, as a professor, as a father. She told him stories about his kindness, his humor, his love of history.
"He would have liked you," Margaret said. "He would have been proud of you."
David's voice cracked. "Do you think he knew about me? Before he died?"
Margaret nodded. "He knew. He always knew. He just didn't know how to reach out."
David was quiet for a moment.
"I wish he had," he said.
Margaret took his hand.
"He was afraid," she said. "We both were. But we're not afraid anymore."
David squeezed her hand.
"Thank you," he said. "For telling me the truth."
---
David stayed for hours.
He looked through photograph albums. He asked questions. He listened to stories. He learned about the father he had never known.
When he finally left, he felt different.
Lighter. Fuller. More complete.
He was not angry anymore.
He was just sad.
Sad for the years he had lost. Sad for the father he would never meet. Sad for the family he would never have.
But he was also grateful.
Grateful for the answers. Grateful for the truth. Grateful for the woman who had welcomed him into her home.
---
That night, David sat in the garden with Lina.
The stars were out, scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds. The air was cool and quiet.
"How do you feel?" Lina asked.
David was quiet for a moment.
"Different," he said. "Lighter. Like I've been carrying something for so long that I forgot what it felt like to put it down."
Lina nodded. "That's called healing."
"Is that what this is?"
"I think so."
David looked up at the stars.
"I'm ready to go home," he said.
Lina took his hand.
"Then let's go home," she said.
---
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty