The early years were exhausting—formula, diapers, sleepless nights. I was 26, single, and barely holding everything together.
My friends were building lives with partners, planning trips and dinner parties.
But I never regretted my decision. Not once.
Isabelle grew into a spirited child—stubborn, curious, and full of life. She’d throw blocks in frustration, then clap with delight when I read her favorite book again. She had scraped knees, endless questions, and a laugh that could brighten even my worst days at the hospital.
Still, there were moments of loneliness. I was the only single dad at school meetings. And one day, she asked:
“Where’s my mom, Daddy?”
“She’s wherever you want her to be, kiddo. But you’ve always got me.”
Years passed. Isabelle grew up in our old house with creaky floors and peeling paint. She learned to ride her bike under the oak tree, and I learned how to braid hair from nurses at work.
Our life was simple—hospital shifts, weekend pancakes, her shoes scattered in the hallway.
I tried dating, but nothing lasted.
“Dad, are you ever going to let anyone in?” she teased once.
“Why mess with perfection, Izzy?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a kid anymore. You could use someone.”
Then one afternoon, I met Kara at the hospital vending machine.
She laughed at my struggle with a stuck bag of chips.
“Want me to show you how the pros do it?”
We went out a few times before I told Isabelle.
“Are you blushing, Dad?” she teased.
“Maybe a little. I’m new to this.”
She squeezed my hand. “Good. You deserve happiness.”
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