Allen was three years old now, clutching a stuffed rabbit that had seen better days. When he saw his mother, he ran straight into her arms. “Mama!” he cried. “I knew you’d come back!” Amber held him like she’d never let go, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry, baby. Grandpa’s here now. We’re going to be a real family.”
It took months to rebuild what had been broken. I helped Amber find a small apartment, watched Allen while she worked part-time jobs, and was there when she gave birth to her daughter, Emma. Slowly, we healed the wounds that Louis and pride had created.
Two years later, Amber met David, a kind man who worked at the local library. He loved her children as his own and treated my daughter with the respect she deserved. When he proposed, Amber came to me first.
“Dad,” she said, tears in her eyes, “I need to ask you something. Will you give us your blessing?”
I looked at this man who had shown my daughter what real love looked like, who read bedtime stories to my grandchildren and never raised his voice in anger. “If he makes you truly happy,” I said, “then he has my blessing completely.
