She looked at me. «I got lucky, mostly. Could’ve been a lot worse.»

The third week, Jennifer asked me something I wasn’t expecting. «Why are you doing this?»

We were closing up, counting the register. «Doing what?»

«Helping me. Letting me stay here. You don’t know me.»

«I’m getting to know you.»

«But why? Most people would’ve said no. Sent me back to the shelter.»

I stopped counting. Looked at her. «Do you want the truth?»

«Always.»

«I was alone for a long time before you walked in here. This store felt empty. I felt empty.»

I folded a $20 bill. Added it to the stack. «You reminded me what this place was supposed to be. A place where people who love books can find each other.»

She was quiet for a moment. «I keep waiting for you to change your mind, tell me to leave.»

«I’m not going to do that.»

«People always leave. Or I leave. That’s how it works.»

«Not this time.»

She nodded. Didn’t look convinced.

That weekend I started checking the DNA website. Multiple times a day. Refreshing my email every 15 minutes.

The results posted on a Monday morning. 3 weeks and 2 days after we’d mailed the samples.

I saw the notification on my phone while Jennifer was restocking the mystery section. My hands shook when I opened my laptop.

There it was. Clear as day. Granddaughter match. Jennifer Carter.

I stared at the screen. Read it again. Again. She was Chris’s daughter.

I printed the results. My printer jammed twice before it worked. «Jennifer?»

My voice sounded strange. She came around the corner. «Yeah?»

«Can you come here for a second?»

She walked over. Looked at my face. «What’s wrong?»

«The DNA results are in.»

«Oh.» She brightened. «What’d we get?»

I pulled up the website on the laptop. Turned it toward her. «Look at this.»

She leaned in. Read the screen. Her face changed. Confused first.

Then shocked. «Grandmother match?» She looked at me. «I don’t understand. How is this possible?»

I took a breath. «I have a son. His name is Chris. He’s 38.»

She stared. «17 years ago, he dated your mother. Amanda Carter. That summer she used to come here to meet him.»

«Then she left. Went back to her hometown. I never saw her again.»

Jennifer’s mouth opened. Closed. «You’re saying?»

«He’s your father.»

«But my mom said he was dead.»

«She lied. Probably to protect you.»

Jennifer sat down hard in the desk chair. «I have a father.»

«Yes.»

«He’s alive.»

«Yes.» She looked up at me. Tears in her eyes. «Do you think he knows about me?»

«I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.»

«When?»

«Soon. I need to talk to him first. Before,» I stopped. «I need to give him a chance to do the right thing.»

«What if he doesn’t want me?» The fear in her voice, the hope underneath it.

«Then he’s a fool,» I said, «and you still have me.»

She wiped her eyes, looked at the screen again. «We’re really family?»

«We’re really family.»

She started crying then. Real crying. The kind that comes from somewhere deep.

I put my arms around her and let her cry into my shoulder. My granddaughter. I had a granddaughter.

That afternoon, I waited until Jennifer went to lunch before I made the call. My phone sat on the counter in front of me.

Chris’s number still saved. Two years since I’d used it. I picked it up.

Put it down. Picked it up again. What was I supposed to say?

Your daughter is here. The one you didn’t know existed. Actually, maybe you did know. Maybe you knew and never cared.

I dialed before I could talk myself out of it. It rang four times. I almost hung up.

«Mom?» His voice. Same as always. Impatient.

«Chris. I need you to come to the bookstore.»

Silence on the other end. «Why?»

«I need to talk to you about something. In person.»

«I’m busy.»

«It’s important.»

«So tell me now.»

I gripped the phone. «Do you remember Amanda Carter?»

Another silence. Longer this time. «What?»

«Amanda Carter. You dated her. 17 years ago.»

«Why are you…» He stopped. «Why are you bringing her up?»

«Just come to the bookstore. Today if you can.»

«Mom? I don’t have time for…»

«Make time.» My voice came out harder than I meant. «This isn’t something we can do over the phone.»

He sighed. Heavy and annoyed. «Fine, I can be there at four.»

«Four works.»

He hung up without saying goodbye. I stood there holding the phone. My hands were shaking.

Jennifer came back 20 minutes later with a sandwich from the deli down the street.

«You okay?» she asked. «You look pale.»

«I called him.»

She set the sandwich down. «And?»

«He’s coming at four.»

Her face went through about 10 emotions at once. Hope, fear, excitement, dread.

«Should I be here?» she asked.

«Maybe stay in the back office. Let me talk to him first.»

«What if he’s happy? What if he wants to meet me?» The hope in her voice killed me.

«Let’s just see what he says.»

Four o’clock came too fast and not fast enough. Jennifer disappeared into the back office 15 minutes early.

I heard her pacing. The floor creaking under her feet.

At 4:03, Chris walked in. He looked the same. Same haircut. Same expensive jacket.

He glanced around the store like he was seeing a stranger’s business. Not the place he grew up in.

«Mom.» A nod, not a hug.

«Chris. Thanks for coming.»

«You said it was important.» He stayed near the door. «So what’s this about Amanda Carter?»

I locked the front door. Flipped the sign to «closed.»

«We should sit.»

«I’d rather stand.»

Fine. We’d do it his way. «Amanda had a daughter,» I said. «16 years old. Her name is Jennifer.»

His face didn’t change. «Okay. And?»

«And she’s your daughter.»

Now his face changed. «That’s not possible.»

«It is possible. It’s true.»

«Amanda and I broke up. She left.»

«She left because she was pregnant. With your baby.»

Chris shook his head. «No. She would’ve told me.»

«Would she? Or would she have been too scared? Too hurt?»

He looked away. Jaw tight. «This is insane.»

I pulled the DNA results from under the counter. Unfolded them. Set them in front of him.

«These are DNA test results. Jennifer took one. I took one. She’s my granddaughter. Which makes her your daughter.»

He stared at the paper. I watched his eyes move across the words. The numbers. The match percentage.

«Where did you get this?»

«Does it matter? You tested some random kid without telling me.»

«She’s not some random kid. She’s Amanda’s daughter. Your daughter.»

Chris pushed the paper away. «I don’t believe this.»

«The science doesn’t lie.»

«Then it’s wrong. Labs make mistakes.»

«Chris.»

«No.» He stepped back. «Why are you even telling me this?»

The coldness in his voice. Like we were talking about a stranger. Not his own child.

«Because she deserves to know her father,» I said. «Amanda died 4 years ago. Overdose. Jennifer was 12.»

«She’s been in foster care. In an orphanage. She ran away last year. She’s been homeless.»

Nothing. No reaction at all.

«She’s 16 years old,» I continued. «And she’s been through hell. The least you can do is meet her.»

«I don’t want to be a father,» he said it flat. Simple, like it was obvious.

My stomach turned. «What?»

«I never wanted kids. I made that clear back then.»

«You told Amanda that?»

«Yeah. When she started talking about the future, I told her I wasn’t interested. That’s probably why she left.»

He said it like it was reasonable. Like abandoning a pregnant woman was just a difference of opinion.

«So you knew,» I said. «You knew she was pregnant.»

«Yeah, she told me. I told her I didn’t want anything to do with it. I was clear about that. That’s why she left before I had to deal with it.»

Deal with it. Like Jennifer was a problem to solve.

«She’s a person, Chris. A kid. Your kid.»

«I have my own life.» He crossed his arms. «I’m not doing this.»

«You won’t even meet her.»

«No.»

«She’s right here. In this store. Working for me.»

His eyes flicked toward the back. Then back to me. «I don’t care.»

«How can you say that?»

«Because it’s the truth.» He grabbed his keys from his pocket. «Find someone else to guilt trip, Mom. I’m not interested in playing happy family.»

«This isn’t about playing anything. This is about a girl who deserves…»

«What? A father who doesn’t want her? That’ll be great for everyone.»

«You’re unbelievable.»

«No, I’m honest.» He turned toward the door. «Amanda made her choice. She had the kid. That was on her. Not me.»

«Don’t contact me about this again.»

He unlocked the door. Walked out. Didn’t look back.

I stood there in the empty store. The DNA results still on the counter. The silence pressing down.

That was it. That was my son.

I heard the back office door open, footsteps on the old floor.

Jennifer appeared in the doorway. Her face told me she’d heard everything.

«He doesn’t want me,» she said. Not a question.

«Jennifer.»

«It’s okay.» She wiped her eyes fast. «I figured.»

«It’s not okay. He should want you. He should’ve.»

«It’s fine,» her voice cracked. «I’m used to it.»

I came around the counter. Pulled her into a hug. She cried quietly. The kind of crying you do when you’re trying not to bother anyone.

«I’m sorry,» I said. «I’m so sorry.»

«You tried. That’s more than most people would do.»

«He’s wrong. You know that, right? This isn’t about you. It’s about him being selfish and cruel.»

She nodded against my shoulder. «My mom was right. She told me he was dead. She was protecting me.»

«She loved you.»

«I know.»

We stood there for a long time. The store quiet around us. The afternoon light fading through the windows.

Finally, Jennifer pulled back. Wiped her face.

«So what now?» she asked.

«Now you stay here. With me. This is your home.»

«You don’t have to.»

«I want to.» I held her shoulders. Looked her in the eye. «You’re my granddaughter. Your family. Chris doesn’t get to decide that.»

«What if he changes his mind?»

«Then we’ll deal with it. But I’m not holding my breath.»

She nodded. Tried to smile. «Can I ask you something?»

«Anything.»

«Do you think something’s wrong with me? Like, why doesn’t he want me?»

My heart broke. «There’s nothing wrong with you. Not one single thing. He’s broken. Not you.»

«Are you sure?»

«I’ve never been more sure of anything.»

She hugged me again. Tighter this time. «Thank you,» she whispered. «For trying. For caring.»

«You don’t have to thank me.»

«I do though.»

We stayed like that until the light outside turned purple. Until the streetlights came on. Until the world felt a little less sharp.

Jennifer went upstairs to lie down. I stayed in the store. Cleaned up. Put the DNA results in a drawer.

Chris didn’t want his daughter. Fine. I did.

And that was going to be enough.

The next morning, we moved Jennifer’s things upstairs. She didn’t have much. The backpack. The poetry book. Three changes of clothes.

A toothbrush still in its package from the shelter. «That’s it?» I asked.

She shrugged. «Easier to run when you don’t have stuff weighing you down.»

«You’re not running anymore.»

She looked at me. Nodded.

I showed her the spare bedroom. Paul’s old office. I’d cleared it out the week before. Put fresh sheets on the bed. Hung curtains.

«This is mine?» she asked.

«All yours.»

She set her backpack on the bed. Ran her hand along the quilt. «I haven’t had my own room since I was twelve.»

«Well, you have one now.»

That night, I heard her moving around at three in the morning. Found her standing in the kitchen.

«Can’t sleep?» I asked.

«Not used to it being quiet. Or warm.» She poured herself water. «At the shelter, there’s always noise. People coming and going. Doors slamming.»

«You’ll get used to it.»

«Yeah.» She drank the water. «Thank you. For this. For everything.»

«You’re family. This is where you belong.»

She smiled, went back to bed.

Within a week, she enrolled in night classes to finish high school. Worked the bookstore during the day. Studied at the counter between customers.

I watched her balance both without complaining. Never late. Never asking for anything.

«You’re allowed to take breaks,» I told her once.

«I’m fine. I like being busy.»

The months moved fast. Her first book club meeting brought in eight people. By the third month, we had twenty regulars.

Jennifer led discussions like she’d been doing it for years. Asked questions that made people think. Made everyone feel heard.

The bookstore started bringing in more money. Not a lot, but enough that I could pay Jennifer a real wage. Not just room and board.

«You don’t have to,» she said when I handed her the first check.

«Yes, I do. You work. You get paid.»

She stared at the check like she’d never seen one before.

Spring turned to summer. Summer to fall. Jennifer turned eighteen in November.

I made her a cake. Chocolate with vanilla frosting. She cried when she saw it.

«No one’s made me a cake since I was eleven,» she said.

We ate it in the kitchen upstairs. Just the two of us.

Two weeks later, she walked across a stage and got her high school diploma. I sat in the audience with a dozen other families and watched her receive that piece of paper.

She found me after. Hugged me hard. «I didn’t think I’d ever finish,» she said.

«I knew you would.»

That winter, I found her notebook on the counter. She’d left it there while restocking.

I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. The pages were filled with stories. Some crossed out. Some finished.

Her handwriting small and careful. The stories were good. Really good. Raw and honest. About a girl surviving things she shouldn’t have to survive.

«You read it,» Jennifer said behind me.

I turned. «I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.»

«It’s okay.» She took the notebook. «They’re not very good.»

«They’re excellent.»

She looked doubtful. «I mean it,» I said. «You have real talent.»

«You’re just saying that.»

«I’ve been selling books for forty years. I know good writing when I see it.»

She bit her lip. «You think I could write a book?»

«Yes.»

«Really?»

«Really.»

She started writing seriously after that. Every night after the store closed. Weekends. Early mornings before we opened.

At nineteen, she finished her first manuscript. Three hundred pages. A novel about a girl taking care of her mother. Finding her dead. Surviving foster care. Finding hope in books.

She gave it to me on a Tuesday. «I don’t know if it’s any good,» she said. «But I finished it.»

I read it that night. All of it. Couldn’t stop.

When I finished, I went to her room. Knocked on the door.

She opened it. Saw my face. «It’s bad, isn’t it?» she said.

«It’s beautiful.» My voice cracked. «Jennifer, this is really beautiful.»

She started crying. «You mean it?»

«Every word.»

We spent the next year learning how to query agents. Jennifer wrote letters. Sent them out.

Got rejections. Lots of rejections.

«Maybe it’s not good enough,» she said after the twentieth one.

«It’s good enough. You just haven’t found the right person yet.»

She kept trying. The bookstore kept growing. Jennifer set up social media accounts.

Posted about new releases. Author recommendations. Photos of the store. People started coming in because they’d seen us online.

«You’re good at this,» I told her.

«It’s easy when you love what you’re doing.»

At twenty-one, an agent said yes. Jennifer called me from the back office, shaking.

«She wants to represent me.»

«That’s wonderful.»

«She thinks she can sell it.»

«Of course she can.»

Three months later, the manuscript sold. Small publisher, modest advance, but it was real.

Jennifer held the contract in her hands like it might disappear. «I’m going to be a published author,» she said.

«Yes, you are.»

Two years later, her book came out. We hosted the launch party at the bookstore. Packed the place.

Jennifer read from chapter one. Her voice steady, strong. I stood in the back and watched her.

This girl who’d walked in homeless and scared. Now standing in front of fifty people reading her own words.

After everyone left, we sat in the quiet store. «Thank you,» Jennifer said. «For believing in me.»

«I’ll always believe in you.»

The book did well, not a bestseller. But it sold. Got good reviews. Won a regional award for debut fiction.

The local paper did a small piece on her. «Local author publishes first novel.» Jennifer smiled for the photo but didn’t make a big deal of it.

At 25, her second book came out. Sold better than the first. Made some bestseller lists. Not the big ones, but enough.

Publishers started paying attention. Her third book sold at auction. Six publishers bidding.

The advance was $200,000. Jennifer came upstairs that day. Sat at the kitchen table.

Put her head in her hands. «You okay?» I asked.

«I don’t know what to do with this much money.»

«Save some. Invest some. Buy yourself something nice.»

«I want to give some to the bookstore.»

«No.»

«Why not?»

«Because you earned that. Your words, your work.»

«You gave me everything,» she said. «Let me give something back.»

We compromised. She helped with repairs. New shelves. Updated the heating system, things the store had needed for years.