He was quiet for maybe 5 seconds. «Deal.»

My heart sank. I’d hoped I was wrong. «When do I get the money?» he asked.

«I need time to list the property. A few months.»

«How do I know you’ll actually do it?»

«How do I know you’ll actually leave?»

He smiled. Cold. «I guess we trust each other.»

«I guess so.» I paused. «Out of curiosity. Why the ‘yes’? Why not fight me on this?»

He shrugged. «Be realistic. She’ll get over it. She got this far without me. She doesn’t really need a father.»

«She wanted one though.»

«Sure. But that’s not my problem. And honestly?» He looked around. «She’s got her books, her writing. That’ll keep her busy. Kids don’t need as much as people think.»

«That’s your daughter you’re talking about.»

«That’s $450,000 you’re offering. Actually, with the right agent, you could probably get $500,000.»

Behind him, the back office door opened. Jennifer stepped out.

Her face was wet with tears. But her eyes were clear.

Chris turned. Saw her. His expression didn’t change much. Just a slight tightening around his mouth.

«Hey Jen,» he said.

«Don’t.» Her voice was steady. «Don’t call me that.»

«Look. This isn’t.»

«This is exactly what it looks like.»

She walked closer. «You were using me.»

«I wasn’t.»

«You were waiting for me to give you money. The whole time. Every coffee. Every dinner. You were just waiting.»

«That’s not true.»

«Yes, it is. You said it yourself. I don’t really need a father.»

Chris stood up. «She set this up. She manipulated this whole conversation.»

«She was right about you. The whole time. And I didn’t believe her.»

«Jennifer. Come on. You’re smarter than this.»

«Yeah. I am.» She crossed her arms. «Get out.»

«There’s no bookstore money, is there?» He looked at me.

«No,» I said.

His face went hard. «This is ridiculous. I never wanted a kid then, and I don’t need this drama now.»

He grabbed his jacket. «You two deserve each other. Stuck in this pathetic bookstore playing happy family.»

He walked to the door. Unlocked it. Slammed it behind him.

Jennifer stood there. Shaking.

I went to her. Put my arms around her. She collapsed. Sobbed into my shoulder.

«I’m sorry,» I said. «I’m so sorry you had to hear that.»

«You were right. You were right about everything.»

«I wish I’d been wrong.»

«I really thought…» She couldn’t finish.

«I know.»

«I’m so stupid.»

«You’re not stupid. You wanted a father. That’s human.»

«He never cared.»

«No, he didn’t.»

We stood there in the bookstore. Just the two of us. The only family either of us needed.

«Thank you,» Jennifer said finally.

«For what?»

«For saving me from making a huge mistake.»

«That’s what family does.»

She pulled back. Wiped her eyes. «I love you.»

«I love you too.»

Outside, the streetlights came on. The world kept turning. But inside William’s bookstore, we had everything we needed.

A year passed. We didn’t hear from Chris. Not a word.

Jennifer blocked his number. Blocked his social media. He was gone from our lives like he’d never been there at all.

Good riddance.

Jennifer’s third novel hit the bestseller lists in the spring. Not just the small ones. The big ones.

The New York Times. USA Today. Her face on displays in bookstores across the country.

We celebrated with takeout Chinese food in the apartment. Just the two of us. The way we liked it.

«This is insane,» Jennifer said, scrolling through her phone. «People are actually reading my book.»

«Of course they are. It’s brilliant.»

She smiled, set the phone down. «I’m working on something new.»

«Another novel?»

«A memoir. About us. About the bookstore. About finding family when you least expect it.»

My throat tightened. «Yeah? If that’s okay with you.»

«More than okay.»

She started therapy that summer. Twice a week. Working through the abandonment. The rejection. All the years of hurt.

«It helps,» she told me once. «Talking about it.»

«Good. That’s good.»

William’s bookstore kept thriving. We hosted more events. Book clubs. Author readings.

Young writers started showing up. Kids from foster care. Teenagers who’d aged out of the system. People who reminded me of Jennifer at 16.

She mentored them. Sat with them in the poetry section. Read their work. Told them they had talent. Gave them hope.

«You’re good at this,» I told her.

«I remember what it felt like, having no one believe in you.»

At 76, I was still running the store. My hair had gone completely gray. My hands ached in the mornings.

But I showed up every day. Opened the doors. Made the coffee.

Jennifer had moved into her own apartment a few blocks away. She decorated it with books. Framed covers of her novels on the walls.

But she came to the bookstore every morning. We still had our coffee together. Still talked about books. Still lived the rhythms we’d built over 12 years.

Her fourth book came out in the fall. I opened it to the dedication page.

«To Linda, who gave me home, family, and stories.»

I cried right there at the counter. Didn’t even try to hide it.

By December, we were planning the Christmas event. Jennifer’s latest novel. A reading and signing.

We decorated the store. Lights in the windows. Garland on the shelves. It looked like something from a movie.

The night of the event, people packed the place. Standing room only. Customers I’d known for years. New faces who’d discovered us online.

Young writers Jennifer had mentored. Friends from her writing community.

Jennifer stood at the front. Read from chapter three. Her voice clear and strong.

I stood in the back. Watched her command the room. This woman who’d walked in 12 years ago with nothing but a worn backpack and a desperate hope.

She’d built this. Her career. Her life. Her confidence.

After everyone left, we cleaned up. Stacked chairs. Swept the floor. Put the garland back in place.

I made tea in the back office. Brought out two cups. We sat in the reading chairs by the window.

The street outside dark except for the streetlights. The store warm and quiet around us.

«I never thanked you properly,» Jennifer said.

«For what?»

«For that day. When I walked in here. You didn’t have to hire me. You didn’t have to care.»

«I saw you. That’s all.»

«Most people don’t see homeless kids. They look away.»

«Well, I’m glad I didn’t.»

«Well, me too.» She sipped her tea. «This store was dying when you got here, you know? I barely had customers.»

«You saved me too,» I said.

We sat in comfortable silence. The kind that only comes from years of knowing someone. Of building a life together one day at a time.

Jennifer laughed suddenly. Something she’d read on her phone. The sound filled the store. Bounced off the shelves. Warmed the corners that used to feel so cold.

I looked around. At the books. At the lights in the window. At this girl who’d become a woman. Who’d become my family.

Twelve years ago, I’d been alone. Grieving. Going through the motions.

Then a girl walked in asking for a job. And everything changed.

Not because of grand gestures or dramatic moments. But because of coffee in the mornings. Books shared in the afternoons. Dinner conversations that stretched into evening.

Small kindnesses that built into something unbreakable.

Chris never understood that. He’d been looking for something big. Something profitable. Something impressive.

He’d missed what was right in front of him. His loss.

Jennifer set her cup down. «I should head home. Early morning tomorrow.»

«Okay.»

She hugged me at the door. «Love you.»

«Love you too.»

She walked out into the December cold. I watched through the window until she turned the corner. Safe.

I locked up. Turned off most of the lights. Left the window display glowing.

Upstairs the apartment was quiet. But not lonely anymore. Never lonely.

I made myself another cup of tea. Sat at the kitchen table. Looked at the framed photo Jennifer had given me last Christmas.

The two of us in the bookstore. Both smiling. My granddaughter. My family.

Tomorrow she’d be back. We’d have our coffee. Talk about books. Serve customers. Live our ordinary, extraordinary life.