The journey wouldn’t be easy. There would still be nights of exhaustion, moments of grief that would catch me off guard at the grocery store, and the bittersweet ache of every milestone Marina would miss. But as I walked into the kitchen and saw the sunlight hitting the table, I didn’t feel like a condemned man anymore.
I felt like a father.
I set April down in her bassinet and reached for the coffee maker. My hands were steady. Then, I picked up the phone. I didn’t delete the audio file. I backed it up to three different clouds and saved it as a favorite. One day, April would need to hear it. One day, she would need to know that she wasn’t the cause of a tragedy, but the heroine of a love story.
But for now, that voice was for me. A reminder that love doesn’t end when the breathing stops. It just changes shape.
“I’ve got her, Marina,” I whispered into the morning air. “I’ve got her.”
And from the bassinet, April let out a small, contented sigh, as if she finally knew she was home.
