“No,” I said. “She’s been surviving.”
Marisa left that night. The ring stayed in a drawer.
A few weeks later, Avery asked if I’d meet her aunt with her. We sat at a small café. The woman cried when she saw Avery’s face. She thanked me until I didn’t know where to look.
At the end, Avery slipped her hand into mine.
“I choose you,” she said. “Every time.”
This morning, we recreated a photo from years ago—me holding a scared little girl in scrubs too big for me. Now she’s taller. Braver. Smiling without fear.
People tell me I saved her.
But the truth is—thirteen years ago, in a cold ER room, a three-year-old girl chose me.
And I’ve been trying to be worthy of that choice ever since.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
