Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

lightness in her husband's voice, but it could have been an act for overhearing ears.
    But when she saw Tom's nearly ear-to-ear grin—the grin she saw only when he was so happy he simply could not wipe it from his face, no matter how hard he tried to play cool and collected—she knew that her worries had been for nothing.
    And when the imposing Admiral Owen Paris, practically a legend in his own time, reached toward her with outstretched hands, clasped her own, and kissed her warmly on the cheek, she almost wept.
    “My son always had an eye for beauty,” said Admiral Paris. “I'm pleased to see that he has learned to value character as well. I've read your captain's report on you, Lieu—B'Elanna. Both of you seem to have won her respect and affections.”
    “Thank you, Admiral,” she said, her voice thick.
    “You may call me Owen, if you like,” he said. “Now, let me see this lovely little grandchild of mine.”
    Torres handed Miral over to her grandfather and reached for Tom's hand. The older man handled the tiny infant with surprising grace, smiling down into her little face with obvious pleasure.
    “You handle babies quite well . . . Owen,” said Torres, trying out the name with caution.
    Admiral Paris smiled. “I've spent enough time with them. You never knew, Tom, that I was the one in charge of diaper changing, did you?”
    Judging by Tom's dumbfounded expression, he clearly did not. Torres smothered a smile at the thought of this distinguished elderly man changing Tom's soiled diapers, but the ease with which he carried Miral made his statement believable. He looked down at his new daughter-in-law and the smile faded somewhat.
    “Tom and I discussed your family situation on our way here,” he said. B'Elanna felt the heat of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. “I understand that you are without family.”
    “Not entirely correct,” she said. “My father . . . chose not to be with me and my mother many years ago. I spoke to him for the first time in years just weeks ago. I have reason to believe that my mother died while we were in the Delta Quadrant.”
    “That was what Tom said,” Admiral Paris confirmed. “I wanted to tell you that now, you do have family. Close family. You and Miral are now dear and valued members of the Paris clan. My wife and I will love you like our own child.” He turned to look at Tom and said, “And that is a great deal indeed.”
    Torres smiled, even though she felt like crying with joy. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to us.”
    “Now, when
Voyager
first appeared,” Admiral Paris continued, “we of course immediately notified all families. Nearly everyone has recorded messages from loved ones. Once I learned who my new daughter-in-law was, I checked to see if we had any for her. We did—two.”
    Torres's breath caught. She couldn't think of any one person who'd want to send her a message, let alone two. Admiral Paris handed them to her. “If you'd like to view them in private, Tom and I can—”
    “No.” B'Elanna spoke swiftly. “You are my family now. Whatever this is, whoever sent it, you can watch it with me.”
    After a moment, Tom nodded, and activated the viewscreen.
    A handsome man with Torres's dark hair and eyes appeared. B'Elanna stared, disbelieving.
    Father.
    “Hello, again, B'Elanna,” he said softly. “You said you would write, but I know you've been busy. I want you to know that I'm so glad you're coming safely home.” He hesitated. “I have a lot of explaining to do. I hope you'll let me do it. I want so badly to see you again, to try to put things right . . . if they can be put right. If you've decided you don't want to see me, I'll understand. But I want to let you know that I love you, and that I'm sorry. Maybe you're old enough to understand that, and forgive me. I won't come to the banquet if you don't want me to. I'll wait to hear from you. If I don't . . . well, that's my answer.”
    He blinked rapidly and his eyes looked very bright. “I love you, my little one. I hope to see you soon.”
    She felt Tom's arm around her, felt Admiral Paris's sympathetic gaze. She swallowed hard.
    “Do you want to see him?” Tom asked, very softly.
    “I—I don't know,” she managed. She fumbled for the second message and handed it to Tom. “Let's see who this one's from.”
    Tom inserted the disk. A lovely but stern Klingon visage appeared, one Torres didn't recognize, and said, “I am Commander Logt. We must soon meet and