I was holding myself together by sheer willpower, determined not to let her see the tears threatening to spill. That first night, we sat cross-legged on a blanket in the middle of the bare living room, the two of us sharing a slice of grocery-store cake on paper plates. She pressed her head against my shoulder and looked around at the space with bright, hopeful eyes.
“It’s okay, Mama,” she said softly. “It’s our cozy castle now.”
That has always been my brave girl who somehow sees light even in the darkest, most uncertain moments. Where I saw loss and isolation, she saw possibility and beginning. From that moment on, she became my reason to keep standing, my anchor, when everything else felt like it might drift away.
Two years ago, when Oliver came into our lives, I was terrified. I had spent so long rebuilding a quiet, solid world for just the two of us. Letting someone else step into it felt like a risk I wasn’t sure I could bear.
But I also knew that if love was ever going to come back to me, it would have to pass a single, unwavering test: my daughter’s heart. Their first meeting happened at the park on a bright afternoon. Goldie and I had stopped to feed the ducks, and Oliver had brought along homemade lemonade in a clinking glass jar, his hands slightly trembling as he handed me a cup.
I remember the tightness in my chest as I watched them from the corner of my eye. He didn’t overwhelm her. He didn’t speak down to her.
Instead, he knelt to her level, waited, and let her decide the pace. Within minutes, she was dragging him toward the swings, babbling about her favorite purple crayons, her stuffed kangaroo named Clementine, and a “grand castle plan” she had for our living room using cardboard boxes. He listened as if each word she spoke was important, as if she herself was important, not a little girl to be brushed aside.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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