Thirteen years. That's how long it had been since I last saw my daughter, Alexandra. She was only 13 when Carol, my ex-wife, packed up and left. I was 37.

I still remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a warm, sticky summer evening, and I came home from work to find Carol sitting at the kitchen table, perfectly calm, waiting for me.

Back then, I was just a construction foreman in Chicago. Our company wasn't huge, but we built all kinds of stuff: roads, office buildings, you name it. I worked my tail off with long days, scorching summers, and freezing winters.

It wasn't exactly a glamorous job, but it paid the bills and then some. My boss, Richard, owned the company. He was older than me, always wore fancy suits, and had this fake smile that bugged me.

The guy loved to show off his money. He drove expensive cars and threw parties at his huge mansion outside of town. Carol, my wife, ate that stuff up. She loved getting dressed up and pretending she was part of that crowd. Meanwhile, I always felt like a fish out of water at those things.

But perhaps, if I'd paid more attention, I would've seen my wife's next move.

"Steve, this just isn't working anymore," she said in a clipped voice, like she was reading from a script.

I blinked at her, confused. "What are you talking about?"

She let out a small sigh. "I'm leaving. Richard and I are in love. I'm taking Alexandra. She needs a better life than this."

The phrase "better life" still makes me angry. I worked hard, harder than most to provide Carol and Alexandra with everything they needed. We had a decent house in the Chicago suburbs, food on the table, and clothes to wear. Sure, it wasn't fancy.

We didn't go on vacations or have designer anything, but it was more than many people had. I didn't understand what was so wrong with it. Carol, however, always wanted more: more money, more luxury, more of everything.

Therefore, she left to shack up with my boss, and my life was shattered. I still tried to be a good father to my daughter. But Carol poisoned her against me. I believe she told her I didn't care about her and that I had been unfaithful.

I don’t know. What I do know is that eventually, my daughter stopped answering my calls and opening my letters. I no longer existed to her.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of my misfortunes. I spiraled into a depression and ignored my health until I ended up in a hospital bed, facing surgery after surgery. The medical bills were so high that I had to sell my house.

Eventually, my job let me go for taking too many days off, although not working for Richard anymore was a blessing.

During this time, Carol moved out of state with my ex-boss, and my Alexandra was gone for good.

The years crept slowly by. I never remarried. I never wanted to. Instead, I worked hard to rebuild my health and focused on founding my own construction business. With that, I managed to claw my way back to a stable, if lonely, life.

At 50, I lived in a decent apartment, and I was financially independent. But there were many moments when I wanted my daughter back.

Then, yesterday, something happened that shook me to my core. I found a letter in my mailbox with a child's handwriting, though they must have gotten help from an adult to address it.

The front said: "For Grandpa Steve."

For a moment, I just stared at it. My hands started shaking. Grandpa? I wasn't a grandpa. Or at least, I didn't think I was. I tore the envelope open, and the first line nearly stopped my heart.

"Hi, Grandpa! My name is Adam. I'm 6! Unfortunately, you're the only family I have left…"

I walked back to the house without thinking and sat on the couch to continue to read the letter. This Adam had help with some of the sentences, but he had written everything in these big, uneven letters.

It made me smile until Iread that he lived in a group home in St. Louis and that his mom, Alexandra, had mentioned me in passing.

He ended his message with: "Please come find me."

Of course, I'd booked the earliest flight to St. Louis.

I didn't sleep that night. How could I? Questions swirled in my mind. How did I have a grandson? Where was Alexandra? Why was he in a home?

Early the next morning, I was at the airport, and a few hours later, I was getting out of a taxi.

The shelter was a plain brick building with chipped paint and a sagging awning that read St. Anne's Children's Home. A woman named Mrs. Johnson met me in the lobby. She was around my age, with kind eyes and a soft voice.

"You must be Steve," she said, shaking my hand. "Adam's been waiting for you."

"Where is he? Is he really my grandson?" My voice cracked, but I didn't care.

"I'll let you meet him soon," she said gently, guiding me into her office. "But there's something you need to know first. Please, have a seat."

It was in that tiny room, filled with folders and surrounded by pictures of kids, that my life changed.

First, Mrs. Johnson confirmed that Adam was Alexandra's son. She said she had greeted them herself the day my daughter surrendered custody of him, just a few months ago.

Mrs. Johnson told me the entire story in detail. Alexandra's life had fallen apart after Carol kicked her out for getting pregnant at 20 without a husband. The father had left, of course.

Afterward, my daughter tried to make things work, juggling low-paying jobs while raising Adam in a tiny apartment. Then, a year ago, she met a rich man named David, who promised her a better life. But, he didn't want someone else's kid.

"That's why she left him here," Mrs. Johnson said. "She said she hoped he'd find a good home. I don't think she knew how to love him even after all those years she raised him. It's tragic, really."

My stomach turned. Alexandra had abandoned her own child. My Alexandra? How had it come to this? And then, I realized what had happened. She had spent six years living a harrowing life and traded it for a wealthy man. Just like her mother. It wasn't a completely equal situation, but it was close.

It was what Carol had taught her.

"And Adam?" I asked hoarsely. "How does he know about me?"