The question lingered between them.
Heavy.
Impossible to escape.
"Who is her father?"
Lillian's tears continued to fall.
Quietly.
Silently.
Sebastian sat motionless on the couch.
Watching her.
Waiting.
Part of him already knew.
Part of him had known the moment she'd frozen when he asked about her age.
But knowing and hearing were two very different things.
The silence stretched.
Then finally, Lillian spoke.
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
"You."
Sebastian didn't move.
Lillian looked down at her trembling hands.
"Her father is you."
The words echoed through the room.
And suddenly everything stopped.
Sebastian couldn't hear the traffic outside.
Couldn't hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
Couldn't hear his own breathing.
All he heard was that sentence.
Her father is you.
Her father is you.
Her father is you.
For several long seconds he simply stared at Lillian.
Waiting for her to take it back.
To tell him he'd misunderstood.
To tell him he was drunk and imagining things.
But she didn't.
Because it was true.
The reality slowly settled over him.
Not all at once.
Piece by piece.
Like a tidal wave creeping toward shore.
He had a daughter.
A daughter.
The words felt unreal.
Impossible.
Yet they were true.
His daughter was asleep only a few rooms away.
His daughter.
A strange pressure built in his chest.
His throat tightened.
And before he could stop it—
A tear slipped down his cheek.
Just one.
Quiet.
Almost unnoticed.
Except Lillian saw it.
And somehow that hurt more than if he'd shouted.
Because in all the time she'd known Sebastian, he rarely cried.
Very rarely.
Seeing even a single tear felt devastating.
Sebastian didn't wipe it away.
He didn't seem to realize it was there.
His gaze remained fixed on nothing.
Trying to process three years of missing pieces.
Then finally he spoke.
Not angrily.
Not accusingly.
Just quietly.
"What's her name?"
The question caught Lillian off guard.
Of all the things she expected him to ask—
It wasn't that.
Not first.
Not immediately.
Her chest tightened.
"Elena."
The name sounded different spoken aloud now.
Because for the first time she wasn't introducing her daughter.
She was introducing Sebastian to his daughter.
A small smile appeared through her tears.
"We call her Ellie."
Sebastian lowered his gaze.
"Elena."
He repeated it carefully.
As if testing the word.
Trying to memorize it.
"Ellie."
The room fell quiet again.
For a moment he simply sat there.
Then a painful realization hit him.
For three years.
Three years.
His daughter had existed.
And he hadn't even known her name.
His hand tightened against his knee.
"Elena."
The name felt precious.
Fragile.
His daughter's name.
A daughter he'd never known existed.
Another silence passed.
Then Sebastian asked:
"What does she like?"
Lillian blinked.
"What?"
"What does she like?"
His voice sounded distant.
Almost desperate.
As though he were trying to make up for three years in a single conversation.
"What's her favorite toy?"
Lillian swallowed.
"The stuffed bunny she carries everywhere."
Sebastian immediately remembered it.
The rabbit she'd been holding earlier.
His chest tightened again.
"What else?"
Lillian smiled sadly.
"She likes drawing."
A pause.
"Cartoons."
"Chocolate chip cookies."
A tiny laugh escaped her.
"Too much chocolate if Chloe is watching her."
For the first time that night, a faint smile touched Sebastian's face.
Tiny.
Brief.
Gone almost immediately.
But it had been there.
"What about preschool?"
"She loves it."
"Does she?"
Lillian nodded.
"She comes home talking about everything."
The smile disappeared.
Because Sebastian suddenly realized something.
There were thousands of these moments.
Thousands.
Moments he'd missed.
Moments he'd never get back.
His daughter learning to walk.
His daughter saying her first word.
His daughter celebrating birthdays.
His daughter growing up.
And he hadn't been there for any of it.
The grief hit hard.
Harder than he'd expected.
Across from him, Lillian wiped at her eyes.
"I never meant for this to happen."
Sebastian looked up.
The pain in her expression was obvious.
"I found out after I left."
Her voice shook.
"After my birthday."
The memory twisted like a knife.
"I was scared."
She looked away.
"I thought I was holding you back."
Sebastian immediately laughed.
A short sound.
Not amused.
Not happy.
Just hurt.
"You decided that for me."
Lillian flinched.
Because he was right.
"You decided what I wanted."
His voice remained calm.
Somehow that made it worse.
"You decided what was best."
A pause.
"You never even asked me."
Lillian closed her eyes.
Fresh tears escaped.
Because there was nothing she could say.
Nothing that would change the past.
Nothing that would return those years.
The apartment became quiet again.
Eventually Sebastian looked toward the hallway.
Toward the room where Ellie slept.
His daughter.
The thought still felt impossible.
His daughter.
Slowly Lillian reached for her phone.
Then opened her photo gallery.
Without speaking, she handed it to him.
Sebastian looked down.
And froze.
The first photo showed a newborn baby wrapped in a pink blanket.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Perfect.
His breath caught.
He kept scrolling.
A baby learning to sit up.
A baby smiling.
A toddler taking her first steps.
Birthday parties.
Trips to the park.
Christmas mornings.
Photos with Thomas and Caroline.
Photos with Chloe.
Years of memories.
Years of moments.
Years of a life.
A life he'd never known existed.
His vision blurred slightly.
He stared at a photograph of Ellie smiling brightly at the camera.
Her blue eyes almost identical to his own.
For a long time he simply looked at the image.
Then he whispered:
"Elena."
The name felt different now.
Real.
His daughter.
Another tear gathered in his eye.
This time he noticed it.
But he didn't wipe it away.
Because he was too tired.
Too overwhelmed.
Too heartbroken.
Finally he lowered the phone.
His voice broke slightly when he spoke.
"Three years."
Lillian's eyes closed.
Because she knew exactly what was coming.
Sebastian looked down at the photograph again.
At the smiling little girl who should have known him her entire life.
And quietly said:
"Three years I could've known her."
The words shattered the silence.
Neither of them spoke after that.
Because there was nothing left to say.
Only the weight of three lost years sitting between them.
And a little girl sleeping peacefully down the hall.
Unaware that her world had just changed forever.