I wouldn’t trade that. Not for anything. Not even to make it easier.”
June hugged me so hard I lost my balance.
Adele and her husband gave me the best gift at the reception, though they didn’t know it was a gift.
They announced they were staying in town. Close.
“Somebody’s got to help you with June’s teenage years,” Adele said. “You’re going to need backup. And you’re not doing the next four years of pink alone.”
All six of my girls come home for Sunday dinner now.
It’s chaos. It’s loud. There are always at least three arguments and one of them is always about the bathroom.
It’s the best thing I’ve ever built, and I built it out of double shifts and library books and birthday cards written at midnight.
I kept one of those cards, by the way.
The first one. Adele’s sixth birthday. “Love, Mom,” in my handwriting.
I don’t keep it out of sadness.
I keep it because it reminds me of the man I had to become — a father who loved his daughters so much he was willing to be their mother too, for as long as they needed it.
Adele framed it for me last Christmas.
