My name’s Ian, 33 years old, married to Jenna, and we’re eagerly awaiting the arrival of our first child.
Life seemed to be on a clear path: I have a stable job in IT, and Jenna, a talented freelance photographer, fills our days with discussions about baby names, nursery colors, and even playful debates over the merits of pineapple on pizza.
It’s a normal, happy life.One night, as the snow piled high outside, I was in the kitchen making hot cocoa—a new favorite of Jenna’s since she got pregnant.
The soft hum of the heater created a cozy contrast to the blizzard outside.
Jenna, curled up on the couch, was half-heartedly scrolling through her phone while absentmindedly rubbing her belly.
“Babe, should we go with blue or green for the nursery?” she asked, her voice light but tinged with fatigue.
“I still say yellow,” I replied, pouring the cocoa into mugs.
“It’s neutral, bright, and it won’t show spit-up as much.”
Jenna chuckled. “You and your practical logic.”
Just as I was about to bring the cocoa over, a sharp knock at the door broke the tranquility.
Unusual, given the weather. Jenna looked up, worry etched on her face.
“Ian, who could that be at this hour?”
“I have no idea,” I muttered, setting the mugs down and heading to the door. Opening the door, I was met with a blast of icy wind. Standing there, shivering and soaked, was a girl who looked no older than 15. Her hair clung to her forehead, her lips were a frightening shade of blue, and her fingers were raw from the cold. She was dressed only in a thin, ragged sweater. “Can I have something to cover up with? A coat, a blanket, anything?” she stammered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind.
There was something oddly familiar about her, but I couldn’t place it. Her eyes darted around nervously, like a deer caught in headlights.“ Of course,” I said, instinctively. “Come in, you’re freezing.” She stepped inside hesitantly, as if she expected the door to be slammed in her face. I grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around her. Jenna, now on her feet, looked at me with concern. “What’s going on, Ian?” she whispered. “I don’t know yet,” I replied, still trying to figure it out myself. The girl wrapped herself tightly in the blanket, but she still seemed terrified. She avoided eye contact, staring at her feet, her hands trembling. “What’s your name?” I asked gently.
“I… I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “Please, don’t call the police. I don’t have an ID, and I don’t have a phone.” Alarm bells rang in my head. Why wouldn’t she want the police involved? I glanced at Jenna, who subtly nodded, urging me to play along for now. “Okay, no police,” I said cautiously. “But are you in trouble? Is there someone we can call for you?” She shook her head vigorously, clutching the blanket tighter. “No… no one.” Jenna’s voice softened. “We’re not here to judge. We just want to help. But you need to tell us something. Are you running away?”
The girl’s face contorted as if she was holding back tears. “I just need to rest. I’ll leave as soon as I can.” Something about her tugged at the back of my mind. That face… it was eerily familiar. But why? When she excused herself to use the bathroom, I noticed an old, frayed jacket near the door, partially buried under a pile of snow. Curiosity got the better of me, and I reached into one of the pockets, pulling out a worn ID card. The name on it sent a chill down my spine: Kenzie Jane Rutherford. Jane… Dorothy’s middle name.
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. The same face, the same middle name… and that last name—Rutherford. The man Dorothy left me for all those years ago. “Ian, what is it?” Jenna asked, noticing the shock on my face.“This girl… Kenzie… she’s Dorothy’s daughter,” I whispered. “Dorothy? Your high school girlfriend?” Jenna asked, her eyes widening. “Yeah, the one who left me for Wesley. This… this girl, Kenzie, she’s their daughter.” Kenzie returned from the bathroom, her face pale and wary. She saw the ID card in my hand, and her expression shifted from fear to resignation.
“You found it,” she said quietly. “Yes, I did,” I replied, my voice firm. “Kenzie, why are you here?”She hesitated, her eyes filled with fear and desperation. “My mom… Dorothy… she passed away a year ago in a car accident. After she died, my dad, Wesley, found out I wasn’t his daughter.
He got a DNA test and when he saw the results, he just… left me. Sent me to an orphanage.” I felt a knot in my stomach. “He left you? Just like that?” Kenzie nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I had nowhere to go. I found out about you from one of my mom’s friends, Avril. She told me about you, Ian, and I didn’t know where else to go.” “Do you think I might be your father?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Kenzie nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do.
I thought you might help me, even if I wasn’t your daughter.”Jenna touched my arm gently. “Ian, we need to help her.” I nodded, feeling the weight of the situation. “Kenzie, if there’s any chance you’re my daughter, we need to know. We’ll get a DNA test and figure this out.” The ride to the hospital was tense. Memories of Dorothy flooded back, but so did the reality that this teenager could be my daughter. After the samples were taken, we waited in the hospital’s small café. Kenzie, nervous, asked about her mom.
“Dorothy was something else,” I said, smiling at the memories. “She had a laugh that could fill a room. We were kids, but I thought I was gonna marry her.” Kenzie smiled sadly. “She taught me to dance.”When the nurse finally brought the test results, my heart pounded. Positive. 99.9% probability of paternity. “Kenzie… you’re my daughter,” I whispered, tears in my eyes. Kenzie smiled and hugged me tight. “I’m so sorry,” I choked out.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” “You didn’t know,” she replied, her voice soft. “You couldn’t have known.” Jenna, wiping away tears, asked, “What now?” I smiled at Kenzie, finally feeling some relief. “How do you feel about pizza?” Kenzie laughed, and in that moment, the warmth of family replaced the cold of the snowstorm outside.
