You had made an agreement with Slade years ago that Rose wouldn’t know the man he truly was. The terms were clear: he would keep his distance, be a shadow, and not disrupt her life. Yet, you’d caught glimpses of him at the back of crowded rooms during her dance recitals, a distant figure watching her every move from afar. It was his way of being present without intruding.

But now, as Rose grew older, her curiosity sharpened. She’d started asking more questions, and tonight was no different. “Mom, who is he?” she asked, her voice both curious and hopeful. “I want to know my dad.”

You felt a pang in your chest as you chopped vegetables, focusing on each slice to steady your hands. “Rose, your father is… well, he’s someone better left unknown,” you replied, trying to keep your tone gentle but firm.

She frowned, leaning against the counter, her eyes pleading. “But why? Doesn’t he want to know me?”