You don’t owe me anything. I just wanted you to know you were loved before that night, too.
I looked at my daughter. The kid who learned to ride a bike in our driveway. The one who still texted me jokes during my shifts.
“You weren’t hiding this from me,” I said softly. “You were scared.”
She nodded, tears spilling over.
Behind us, Marisa crossed her arms. “So you’re fine with this? She’s been lying.”
I stood up.
“No,” I said. “She’s been surviving.”
Marisa left that night. The ring stayed in the drawer.
A few weeks later, Avery asked if I’d meet her aunt with her. We sat in a small café. The woman cried when she saw Avery’s face. She thanked me until I didn’t know where to look.
When we left, Avery slipped her hand into mine.
“I choose you,” she said. “Every time.”
This morning, we recreated a photo from years ago. Me in oversized scrubs holding a frightened little girl. Now she’s taller. Braver. Smiling without fear.
People tell me I saved her.
But the truth is, thirteen years ago, in a cold emergency room, a three-year-old girl chose me.
And I’ve been trying to earn that choice ever since.
