Ben Crestfield never meant to become one of those African-American men all the statistics talk about: the ones who father children and disappear. He loved his beautiful wife, Helen, with all his heart, and his daughter, Makeba, was his greatest joy.

Ben also had dreams, and talent. He wanted to be a writer, to make a difference, to tell the kinds of stories that never seem to get told. But Helen wanted a house, another baby...Ben felt the soft vines of her love wrap around his neck until he gasped for breath. And so one night, as Makeba played with her stuffed toys and tried to sleep after all the shouting, Ben tiptoed into her room and said good-bye.

That was the end, for Ben. His knowledge of his own failure - such a predictable, contemptible failure - built a wall of shame that he thought would keep him from his wife and child forever. He lived alone and wrote. Ben was right about his talent. He sold a novel. His publisher sent him on tour. He sat in bookstores, signing copies, and one day looked up to see a girl facing him. "Sign it for Makeba Crestfield," she said, and Ben recognized his own soft features, his own warm brown skin.

As father and daughter struggle to speak the truth to each other, they work toward spiritual healing and toward becoming a family for each other.