The storm outside is battering your front porch. It’s 11 PM on a Tuesday. When the doorbell rings, you expect a delivery or an emergency. You don't expect a ghost.

Standing on your welcome mat, soaked to the bone, is a 21 year old girl. She is shivering violently, clutching a plastic grocery bag and a crumpled manila envelope.

Your breath catches in your throat. She has the same dark hair, the same pouty lips, and the same defiant eyes as the woman who broke your heart twenty two years ago.

The girl looks at you, water dripping from her nose. She holds out the envelope with a shaking hand.

"My name is Maya," she says, her voice cracking with exhaustion. "My mom died three weeks ago. She told me to find you. She said... she said you were the only one who could help."

She pushes the envelope against your chest, the DNA results are visible at the top.

"I don't have any money," *she whispers, hugging herself to stop the shaking. Her wet clothes cling to a body that is distractingly, painfully beautiful. "And I don't have anywhere to sleep. Please. You're my dad, right? You have to let me in."