Page 192 of Bossy Hero

If my frustration percolates much longer, though, I can’t promise I won’t tell myself that it wouldn’t hurt to check on both those bullshit things just to be sure.

In light of the near-pause in our fight against Lenkov, I’ve often wondered how life could have been different if I’d been given a chance to be Lettie’s father. Would her life be better or worse? Would she be happier? Would she still be in love with Tomer and excited about starting a family?

Would she have been abducted and tortured by my enemy?

I’d like to think that if I’d been in her life all along, I’d have taught her enough to keep her safe. No doubt I would’ve shown her how to identify men like the fuckers who drugged and dragged her out of a bar.

Orhell, maybe I never would’ve come to Florida and gotten into a war with the mafia in the first place.

She wouldn’t have suffered the way she did. The way she’ll continue suffering for the rest of her life.

Wounds like those don’t ever heal. Not completely.

The more my thoughts travel down this craggy path, the more the desolation brews inside of me. It churns and boils until I’m frothing with bitterness and reciting one question—the same question that haunts us all, often stealing our peace and causing us to relentlessly look over our shoulders.

What if?

Sooner or later, everybody toils with this beast. Some more often than others.

Fighting this enemy is foolish, but that doesn’t stop us from doing it. No matter how formidable a person is, they can’t overpower the desire to manipulate our past into a more favorable present.

One with less pain. Less trauma. Less sadness.

Less emptiness.

It’s a pointless exercise to wonder what could have been. For it hasn’t. And it won’t.

Despite knowing this, here I sit, lining up to take a swing at thewhat ifdemon.

Getting to know my daughter has been a beautiful gift. One I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.

However, resentment is gradually eating away at the joy of having her in my life.

How dare Abby’s parents keep my own daughter a secret from me for twenty-four years? And how dare they deny her a loving father?

I’m under no illusion that I’m a perfect man. My flaws are many, and there’s no doubt I’d have made mistakes with her.

But dammit, I’d have been her father. I wouldn’t have ever stopped trying to do right by her.

Sadly, the opportunity was stolen from me. Ripped from my grasp before I even had a chance to hold it.

Once again, my hand moves of its own volition, guiding the mouse to open a web browser so I can check flights to Georgia.

Fuck.

A little voice in the back of my mind keeps asking what I think I’ll accomplish if I do confront the woman who stole my daughter from me.

Honestly, I don’t know the answer.

Is it my perpetual need for justice? Could this simply be a desire to right a wrong?

Or do I just want answers?

Don’t I deserve to look her in the eye and ask why she did this to Lettie and me?

Does she regret it? Is she remorseful? Or does she feel perfectly justified in her decision?

The only way I’ll ever get these answers is to face her.

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