I never imagined a snowstorm would bring a stranger to my doorstep. That night, as my pregnant wife Jenna and I relaxed, a knock interrupted the peace. A shivering teenager stood there, desperate for warmth. We brought her in, and although she refused to give her name, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she seemed familiar.

As she excused herself to use the bathroom, I found an ID card in her jacket: Kenzie Jane Rutherford. The name sent a chill down my spine—Dorothy, my high school girlfriend, had that middle name. Dorothy had left me for Wesley years ago, and now their daughter stood before me.

Kenzie confessed that Dorothy had died in a car accident and Wesley, upon learning she wasn’t his biological daughter, abandoned her. She had nowhere to go but to me, her potential father.

A DNA test confirmed it—Kenzie was my daughter. Overwhelmed with emotions, I promised to be there for her, making up for lost time. As we left the hospital, I turned to her and asked, “How do you feel about pizza?”

Kenzie smiled for the first time, and in that moment, everything felt right.