Ten years ago, I made a promise to a woman who knew she was dying. I didn’t fully understand then how heavy it would be, or how it would shape every choice I’d make. I only knew I loved her—and her child—and sometimes love asks for everything without explanation.
Her name was Marianne.
We met by chance, the kind of accidental meeting that later feels destined. She walked into my small shoe repair shop one rainy afternoon with cracked heels, apologizing as though the damage were her fault. She carried her daughter, Lily, a quiet little girl hiding behind her mother’s coat, watching me with wide, cautious eyes.
There was no slow burn. Life moved fast because it already knew what was coming.
Lily’s biological father had vanished the moment Marianne told him she was pregnant—no goodbye, no support, no explanation. By the time I entered their lives, Lily was three, wary of men, but she warmed to me in tiny, careful steps. I earned her trust with patience: letting her paint my workbench with washable paints, building a crooked treehouse in our backyard while she supervised with a plastic crown, learning to braid her hair from videos late at night. Eventually, she called me her “always dad.”
I owned a modest shop, just leather and glue and hands that knew how to fix things. Marianne and Lily felt like a miracle. I saved for months to buy a ring, planning to propose during a weekend trip to the lake. But cancer didn’t care about my plans.
The diagnosis came too late. Hospitals became our second home. Lily slept curled up in waiting room chairs while I held Marianne’s hand, trying to believe we still had time.
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