Ten years ago, everything in my life changed inside a small hospital room. My girlfriend, Laura, lay weak and exhausted, knowing her time was running out. With a shaking hand, she reached for mine and asked me to take care of her daughter, Grace. She didn’t ask because it was easy. She asked because she knew how much I had grown to love the little girl who used to peek at me from behind her legs.
“I need you to stay in her life,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll raise her with love.”
I made that promise, and after she passed, I honored it with everything I had.
Grace and I rebuilt our lives together. We created our own routines, our own traditions, our own definition of family. She gave me directions from her treehouse while I held the hammer. She insisted she didn’t need help riding her bike until she fell and cried in my arms. She demanded that popcorn always be in one bowl so we had to share it evenly. Slowly, I became the person she ran to for comfort, the one she trusted with her happiness, fears, and small everyday moments.
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