Alexander Whitmore remained standing in the center of the room.
Silent.
Broken.
For the first time in years, there was no arrogance in his expression.
No confidence.
No superiority.
Only regret.
He thought about Olivia.
The little girl who used to run to the door every evening when he came home.
The daughter who saved her best drawings for him.
The child who still believed her father was a hero.
He thought about Grace.
The little girl who had inherited his eyes.
The one who used to laugh at every silly joke he made.
The daughter who had never stopped loving him.
And suddenly, Alexander understood something he should have understood years ago.
They were never disappointments.
They were never less valuable.
They were his family.
The family he had thrown away.
Robert Whitmore Sr. slowly approached his son.
For years, he had taught Alexander one thing above everything else:
