CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

When I was little, I would draw imaginary pictures of my Dad, wondering what he looked like, if he had blue or green eyes, if his hair was black or brown or blonde. My mother never spoke about him even when I asked, all I ever wanted was to meet him and now, he was right in front of me.

“Olivia, you’ve grown so much—

“Stop!”

I snapped, halting his movements towards me.

He could be lying, I’ve never met my Dad, I didn’t know what he looked like and neither should he know what I looked like because he left before I was even born. He shouldn’t even know my name but then, there was this unexplainable familiarity I felt between us.

“How do you know my name?”

I asked, scowling deeper.

“Because I’ve been trying to contact you for months now, I only just met an old friend of your mom’s and I—

He stopped, his bright hopeful eyes turned dull with sadness.

“She’s dead.”

I told him, almost choking on my words.

“I know.”

He nodded, looking to the ground, his expression regretful.

“Wel