kissed my cheek.
Then I walked her down the aisle.
At the front, before releasing my arm, she squeezed my hand.
“Love you, Dad.”
I almost lost whatever dignity I had left.
Then came Ava.
Then Claire.
Three walks.
Three daughters.
Three moments when I had to let go of the tiny hands I once held in a hospital room and place them into the hands of men who loved them.
By the reception, I was emotionally exhausted.
But happy.
Deeply happy.
For the first time in years, I thought maybe the hardest parts of our story were behind us.
Then I saw her.
A woman sat near the back of the reception hall.
Silver threaded through her dark hair.
Her face was thinner.
Older.
But twenty years could not erase what I knew.
Vanessa.
She held a handkerchief against her mouth.
Tears streamed down her face.
For one ridiculous
