I pulled her into my chest and held her like she was still three years old and the world was still trying to take her away.
“I’m sorry I even questioned you,” I whispered into her hair. “But listen to me carefully. No job, no woman, no amount of money is worth losing you. Nothing.”
She sniffed. “So you’re not mad?”
“I’m furious,” I replied. “Just not at you.”
The next day, I filed a police report. Not for drama, but because Marisa had stolen from me and tried to destroy my relationship with my daughter. I also told my supervisor at the hospital the truth before Marisa could spin her own version.
The next day, I filed a police report.
That was two weeks ago. Yesterday, she texted: “Can we talk?”
I didn’t respond.
Instead, I sat at the kitchen table with Avery and showed her the college account statement — every deposit, every plan, every boring adult detail.
“This is yours,” I added. “You’re my responsibility, baby. You’re my daughter.”
Avery reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing it tight.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt something like peace settle back into our home.
“You’re my responsibility, baby.
You’re my daughter.”
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