The months that followed were a delicate balancing act.
The girls were inseparable — switching between our homes, finishing each other’s sentences, and insisting on wearing matching clothes.
Then one night, as I tucked Sophie into bed, she looked up at me with sleepy eyes and said, “Dad… you should marry Wendy. Then we could all live together.”
I chuckled, brushing her hair back. “Honey, that’s complicated.”
She smiled dreamily. “Mom would want you to be happy.”
Her words stayed with me. Irene’s absence would always ache, but maybe she’d given us this strange, beautiful second chance.
