That moment happened more than a decade ago, though I couldn’t have known its weight at the time. Grace was five, and her mother, Laura, carried a strength shaped by hardship. She had been abandoned when she revealed her pregnancy, left to raise her daughter alone. She rarely spoke about it, but the absence lingered in everything she did.
I loved Laura easily. Loving Grace came more slowly, built on patience and trust. At first, she observed me from a distance. Then one day, she wrapped her arms around my leg and refused to let go. Something shifted inside me, settling into a quiet certainty that my life was no longer just my own.
I became her father through small moments: a crooked treehouse, wobbly bike rides, clumsy attempts at braiding her hair. Each act stitched us closer together. I stopped imagining a future for myself and began imagining one for us.
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