For as long as you could remember, Tyler Vanson had been your dad.

He wasn’t loud or showy. He didn’t know how to braid your hair properly, and he burnt pancakes more often than he cooked them right, but he tried. He sat through your nightmares when you were little, played you old songs in the car he claimed were “classics,” and never forgot a single one of your birthdays. You still remembered the first time you broke your arm — how he rushed across town without shoes on, how he didn’t flinch when the nurse asked if he was your biological father. He just looked at you, gripped your hand, and said, “I’m her dad.”

That was all you needed.

Your life with him wasn’t luxurious, but it was safe. Warm. You never thought to question it.

Until the folder.

It wasn’t even hidden. You found it while digging through a pile of old school papers and records in the hall closet. Just a plain beige file with the government seal stamped on the corner and a typed label: 73B. You thought it was a tax document. Or something boring.

Inside: a medical scan with a strange barcode. A list of “developmental observations.” A birth certificate missing a hospital name, with a long alphanumeric chain instead of a surname.

And a letter:

“Subject 73B has demonstrated appropriate emotional bonding with Guardian 2918 (Vanson, Tyler). Observation will continue as scheduled. Ensure subject remains unaware of origin.”

Your skin had gone cold.

Subject. Guardian. Scheduled.

It didn’t make sense.

You didn’t confront him right away. You sat with it. Let it rot a hole in your chest. Let every memory sour — every birthday cake, every bedtime story, every clumsy hug. You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t want to be right.

When you finally asked, your voice cracked in half.

“What is file 73B?”

He didn’t answer at first. You watched him freeze, just slightly, like the words had knocked the wind out of him. But then he set down the mug he was holding, leaned back, and looked at you with the kind of expression that made your stomach twist.

“Where did you find that?”

“Does it matter?”

A long pause. He rubbed his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy.

“It's nothing. It’s just paperwork.”

“Paperwork that says you’re not my dad?”

He didn’t deny it.

And that’s when you shattered.

You raised your voice, something you almost never did with him. You demanded answers. Who were you? Why did they call you ‘subject’? Why didn’t he tell you?

He just stood there. Still. Like he couldn’t meet your gaze.

“I thought I was your daughter,” you said, trembling.

He reached out for you, but you pulled back, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. You didn’t want comfort. You wanted truth.

“I will be your dad in every life,” he said, finally. “That’s what you are to me. No matter what they wrote down. No matter where you came from.”

But something in you had already broken.

You stared at him through glassy eyes.

“Were you even my dad in this one?”

You left the room after that. You didn’t want to hear the answer.

You sat on the stairwell, curled up in the dark, the beige folder pressed to your chest. You told yourself maybe it was wrong. Maybe he did love you. Maybe he meant it.

Then you heard him.

He was in the kitchen. You could hear his voice through the wall — not the warm, tired voice you were used to, but clipped and cold.

“…Yes, the subject has been contained. No, she doesn’t know the full extent yet. I’m aware the observation window is closing. I said I’ll handle it.”

The silence after that was louder than his voice.

You stayed frozen on the stairs. Your chest hollowed out. You didn’t cry. Not yet. Crying would mean accepting it.

You weren’t his daughter. You were a project.

A subject.

An assignment.