On her grave, I wrote:
“My daughter—who taught me what love truly means.”
Now, I live quietly.
The house is still the same.
But I am not.
I planted roses by the porch—the kind she loved.
Every morning, when they bloom in the sunlight, I think of her smile.
I spend my days helping children who have nowhere to go.
Not to erase what I did.
That can’t be erased.
But to honor who she was.
Sometimes, when the wind moves through the garden, I imagine I hear her voice:
“It’s okay, Dad.”
And for the first time in years…
I believe it.
