In the house I bought with years of overtime.
Under the light fixture I rewired myself because I couldn’t afford an electrician.
Eighteen years.
Pigtails.
Cartoons.
Packed lunches.
Parent-teacher nights.
And one forgotten acceptance letter in a shoebox.
“I was supposed to give you everything, dear,” I finally said. “That was my job.”
Ainsley walked around the table, knelt in front of me, and placed her hands over mine.
“You did, Dad. Now let me give something back.”
One of the officers near the door cleared his throat softly.
I looked at my daughter—and saw her differently.
Not just my little girl.
But someone who had chosen me… just as I had chosen her.
