I drove home and cried until my chest hurt.
That night, sitting at the kitchen table, I finally understood something painful and undeniable.
This wasn’t about me.
It was about my daughter needing closure. About a child trying to reconcile the father who left with the man who was about to die.
The next day, I told them I was coming with them.
I brought a pie—blueberry, David’s favorite.
When I walked into that hospital room again, I didn’t forgive him. I didn’t absolve him of what he’d done. I made that clear.
“I’m not here for you,” I told him quietly. “I’m here for Avery.”
He nodded, eyes wet. “I know.”
We sat there together. Awkward. Honest. Uncomfortable.
And over the next few weeks, we kept going back.
I didn’t heal overnight. Some wounds don’t. But Avery did. She laughed again. Slept through the night. Stopped whispering secrets.
One night, as I tucked her into bed, she hugged me tightly and whispered, “I’m glad you didn’t say no, Mom.”
I kissed her forehead, my throat tight.
Love doesn’t always fix the past.
Sometimes, it just gives us the strength to face whatever comes next.
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