I built my life around that kid — heating up chicken nuggets at midnight, making sure Mr. Hopps was always nearby when nightmares came. I switched to a steadier hospital schedule, started a college fund as soon as I could. We weren’t rich, but Avery never had to wonder if there’d be food on the table or if someone would show up for her school events. I showed up. Every single time.
She grew into a sharp, funny, stubborn girl. Pretended she didn’t care when I cheered too loud at soccer games but always scanned the bleachers to make sure I was there.
By 16, she had my sarcasm and her mother’s eyes — I only knew that from a single photograph the police had given the caseworker. She’d climb into my passenger seat after school, toss her backpack down, and say things like, “Okay, Dad, don’t freak out, but I got a B+ on my chemistry test.”
“That’s good, honey.”
“No, it’s tragic. Melissa got an A and she doesn’t even study.” She’d roll her eyes, but I’d see the smile tugging at her lips. She was my whole heart.
I didn’t date much. When you’ve watched people disappear, you get selective. But last year, I met Marisa, a nurse practitioner. Polished, smart, funny. She remembered Avery’s bubble tea order, drove her to debate club when I was stuck at work. Avery was cautious but not cold. Progress.
After eight months, I thought maybe I could do this — have a partner without losing what I already had. I bought a ring and hid it in my nightstand.
