At night he lit a candle before Naomi’s photo, confiding fears, small triumphs, and the children’s laughter. Though the candle offered no reply, the ritual grounded him. Outside, the world dissected the drama, but inside, a quieter story formed—one written in lunchboxes, library cards, scraped knees, and shared routines. The girls did not need heroics; they needed consistency, and he gave it.
On the couch with a daughter under each arm, he finally understood what once frightened him: family was not a predefined dream but a promise kept through everyday choices. It was born in crisis but sustained in countless humble moments. Its strength was not loud but steady, and for the first time since everything shattered, that steadiness felt like home.
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