A stranger at the grocery store grabbed me and yelled, “Those are my kidnapped kids you’re raising!”

“Every time they see you, it confuses them about who their parent is. Mia still calls you daddy sometimes, and it’s confusing for her.”

I looked through the window where the girls were playing with blocks. They did look happy, settled—like they’d found their place in the world again.

“I need to think about it,” I said.

That night I sat in their old bedroom at my house that I’d never had the heart to pack up. Their stuffed animals still sat on the beds.

Their books lined the shelves. I’d kept everything exactly as it was the day they were taken from me.

My therapist had said this wasn’t healthy, that I needed to move on, but I couldn’t let go. After two weeks of agonizing over the decision, I called Elizabeth and told her I agreed to end the visits.

“I think you’re making the right choice,” she said.

“And I promise I’ll tell them about you when they’re older. I’ll make sure they know you loved them and took care of them.”

It wasn’t enough, but it was all I was going to get. The final visit was on a Saturday in April.

Spring had arrived, and everything felt too bright and alive for how dead I felt inside. Mia and Olivia were six and four now, growing so fast.

We played in the facility’s playground for an hour, and I tried to memorize every detail. The way Mia’s hair flew behind her when she ran.

The sound of Olivia’s laugh when I pushed her on the swing. When it was time to leave, I knelt down and pulled them both into a hug.

“I love you both so much,” I said.

“I want you to always remember that.”

Mia nodded against my shoulder.

“We love you too, Daddy.”

Olivia had started calling me by my first name, Nathan, but she hugged me tight and said, “Bye, Nathan. Will we see you next month?”

“We’ll see,” I said, unable to tell her the truth.

Elizabeth came to collect them, and the girls ran to her excitedly, talking about the playground. She gave me a small nod—somewhere between sympathy and gratitude.

Then they were gone. I sat in my car in the parking lot for an hour afterward, crying so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.

My daughters were alive and safe and happy. They’d been returned to their real mother.

This was the best possible outcome given the horrible situation, but it didn’t make the loss hurt any less. I’d raised those girls for three years.

I’d been there for scraped knees and bad dreams and first days of school. I’d taught Mia how to ride a bike and helped Olivia learn her colors.

Those memories were real, even if the foundation was built on lies. Driving home, I passed the grocery store where this nightmare had started.

The same store where a stranger had grabbed me and yelled about kidnapped kids. I’d been so sure she was crazy that day, so convinced she was wrong.

Now I understood that sometimes the truth is more horrible than you can imagine. Sometimes your whole life is a lie, and you don’t realize it until a stranger in a grocery store tears everything apart.

My house felt empty without the girls. I’d gotten used to the quiet over the past year, but it still hurt.

I finally started packing up their room, boxing their toys and clothes to donate. I kept one stuffed animal each as a reminder: Mia’s purple elephant and Olivia’s bunny.

They sat on my bookshelf where I could see them every day. Life moved forward because that’s what life does.

I went back to work and tried to rebuild my reputation. I moved to a different neighborhood where people didn’t know my story.

I started dating again, though I was honest about my past from the beginning. Some women couldn’t handle the baggage.

Others understood that sometimes terrible things happen to good people. Two years after the final visit, I got a letter forwarded from my old address.

The handwriting was childish, and my hands shook as I opened it.

“Dear Nathan, mommy said I could write to you. I’m learning cursive in school now. I remember you used to read me bedtime stories. Do you still have my purple elephant? I miss him. Love, Mia.”

I sat down hard on my couch, reading the letter over and over. She remembered.

After all this time, she still remembered me. I wrote back immediately, telling her I did still have her elephant and I’d kept it safe for her.

I told her about my new job and my new apartment. I asked about school and Sparkles the puppy and what books she was reading now.

Elizabeth had made good on her promise to tell them about me. And Mia had reached out on her own because some part of her still connected to the father who’d raised her during those crucial years.

We started writing letters back and forth—nothing frequent, maybe every few months, but enough to maintain a connection. Olivia joined in sometimes, her letters shorter and messier, but just as precious.

They told me about their life with Elizabeth, and I told them about mine. It wasn’t the relationship I’d imagined having with my daughters, but it was something.

Three years after that final visit, Elizabeth called me out of the blue.

“The girls have been asking about you more,” she said.

“Mia especially. She wants to know if you’d be willing to have lunch sometime. No supervision, just a casual meal.”

My heart jumped into my throat.

“Really?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Elizabeth continued.

“You were a good father to them during those years. What Vanessa did was horrible, but you loved them genuinely. I think maybe we were wrong to cut you off completely.”

We met at a family restaurant on a Saturday afternoon. The girls were nine and seven now—so much bigger than my last memories of them.

Mia ran up and hugged me immediately.

“Nathan, you look different with the beard!”

Olivia was more reserved, but she smiled and let me hug her too. We ate burgers and fries and talked about everything: school and friends and the puppy, who was apparently huge now.

They showed me photos on Elizabeth’s phone of their life—birthday parties and vacations and ordinary moments I’d missed. It hurt seeing all I’d lost, but it also felt like a gift to be included again, even in this small way.

“Do you remember when I taught you to ride a bike?” I asked Mia.

Her face lit up.

“Yes! You ran behind me holding the seat, and when you let go, I fell and scraped my knee.”

“But you got right back on,” I said.

“You were so brave.”

Elizabeth watched these exchanges with a complicated expression, probably wondering if letting me back in was a mistake. But when Olivia started telling me about her dance recital with genuine excitement, Elizabeth’s face softened.