“She’s your daughter,” I say as calmly as possible. “How old is she?” A part of me already knows the answer. Arin sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “Four years and three months.” I stand, too overwhelmed to speak. Four years and three months… If I factor in the nine months it takes to carry a child, then that means… “She’s mine?” She nods slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes. God help me, yes.”
