When I married Travis three years ago, I believed I had found the man who would be my forever partner. He spoke about his daughter Lily with such tenderness that it softened his entire face. The first time I met her, she was a shy ten-year-old clinging to his leg in Glendale Park, whispering “Daddy” like the word was her anchor. I admired the bond they shared and respected his boundaries when he kept our relationship separate from his parenting. If I suggested dinner with Lily, he would decline gently. “Her mother prefers it this way. I don’t want to complicate custody,” he’d say. I let it go. I wanted to be the stepmother who supported without intruding
Then one evening, a phone call shattered the calm.
“Mia, something terrible happened,” Travis said, his voice breaking. “Lily had a bike accident. Her leg’s badly hurt. They’re not sure she’ll walk normally without months of therapy.”
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