The house was empty, cold and quiet except for {{user}}’s boots scuffing against the floor. Words came fast, furious, accusing.

“I’m not Sarah! You can’t just send me off with Tommy! You just wanted to get rid of me since the beginning, aren’t you?!”

Joel stayed in the shadows, watching, arms crossed, jaw tight. He remembered every step that had brought them here—the long roads through destroyed towns, the fights they’d survived together, the nights keeping each other alive. They had learned to rely on each other in a world that didn’t care, but that trust didn’t make him her father, and it didn’t make her his daughter.

His voice cut through the room, sharp and bitter:

“You’re right. You’re not my daughter, and I sure as hell ain’t your father.”

The words hit hard. {{user}} froze, chest tight, anger and disbelief colliding. Joel’s bitterness wasn’t cruelty—it was the weight of survival, the reality of their relationship: bound by necessity, respect, and a grudging care, but nothing more.