Mathew Williams Sr. had watched as his eldest son raised his daughter.
His daughter, not his son's, his.
And yet he was hardly present in her life—he'd been hardly present in any of his children's lives.
He wondered when he'd let life get away from him, let the children he'd wanted so much when he was younger fall to the wayside for his job.
Aoife had raised the kids while he was off working, hardly ever home and always uprooting them for his job up and down the east coast.
She'd raised one hell of a son, though.
He watched from the road as Daniel, his eldest, took pictures with his camera and played with the kids gathered for this special day.
He watched as Grace, his youngest, ran up to the young blond and showed him something she'd found in the sand; the smile he'd given her before his tugged on one of her braids spoke volumes of their relationship.
Biologically, Grace was his daughter.
In every way that counted, Daniel was her father.
He watched as his . . . his granddaughter ran up to another young man and showed him the same thing before he swept her up and carried her around causing her to shriek in joy.
He wasn't going to intrude; this was their day, their celebration.
It's not every day your little girl turns three, after all.