“How on earth do you know all of that?” Chloe whispered nervously over the phone.
“Because the moment you two started harassing Dad about my project funding, I had to hire professionals to ensure no one used family ties to pressure my lab,” Hannah answered coldly. “Fix your own problems because I am not going to pay your debts.”
She ended the call immediately. That evening, I realized a terrible truth. I had distributed my wealth believing I was rewarding the good daughters, but Samantha and Chloe had simply learned the lesson I taught them: that love and duty were measured strictly in money. Hannah was the only one who had refused to play that game, and I had punished her for it.
During the days that followed, I started reading the technical books sitting on her shelves. Though I could not understand half of the scientific terms, I learned that preserving an ancient piece of paper required studying fibers, inks, humidity, acidity, and material compatibility. I learned that a single rushed repair could destroy a historical document forever.
One afternoon, I walked past her open bedroom door and saw her participating in a video conference with an elderly scholar with white hair. They were speaking fluent Italian and English.
When she closed her laptop, I stepped closer to speak with her. “Who was that man on the screen?” I asked gently.
“That was Professor Lorenzo Rossi,” she answered. “He was one of my primary mentors during my advanced studies in Rome.”
I realized there was an entire chapter of her life that I knew nothing about. “You never told me that you lived and studied in Rome,” I said softly.
She offered a small, sad smile. “We were barely speaking to each other during those years, Dad,” she reminded me.
It was not spoken as an accusation, but rather as a plain statement of fact. I sat down on the chair across from her.
“Do you hate me for what I did?” I asked hesitantly.
Hannah took a long moment to process her answer before speaking. “No, I do not hate you,” she replied gently.
“Then what do you feel toward me?” I asked, bracing myself.
“Pity,” she answered quietly.
That single word struck me straight in the chest. “You feel pity for me?” I asked back.
“I feel pity that a master craftsman like you could not recognize the same passion in his own daughter just because she chose to work with paper instead of wood,” she explained softly.
