11/29/2025
Ten years ago, I became the father of Laura’s little girl, Grace. Laura had become pregnant during a previous relationship, and Grace’s biological dad disappeared the moment he found out. No contact, no support, nothing.
I met Laura years after that. She was light and kindness, someone everyone loved right away. Grace was just five when I entered their lives. I built her a treehouse, taught her how to ride a bike, even learned to braid her hair, though I wasn’t any good at it.
I bought an engagement ring. I had plans to propose to Laura.
But then she grew sick. Cancer took her from us.
She died holding my hand, leaving instructions that would define my life:
"Take care of my baby. You’re the father she deserves."
So I did exactly that.
Raising Grace became my purpose. I took care of her as my own child.
My work is fixing shoes downtown: boots for laborers, dress shoes for those attending interviews, and kids’ baseball cleats—those repairs are always free. Money isn’t abundant. There’s security, though, and fierce love for Grace.
Thanksgiving, like many before, was just the two of us. She mashed the potatoes while I prepared the turkey, sticking to Laura’s old recipe.
Midway through our meal, she put down her fork. All the color drained from her face.
“Dad… I need to tell you something.”
Her voice faltered, and she looked scared.
“Dad, I’m going back to my real dad. You can’t imagine who he is. You know him.”
Everything inside me froze.
She continued.
“He promised me SOMETHING.” ⬇️
