His voice was low and unsteady, and his eyes searched my face as though a great deal depended on my answer.

I waited, expecting one of the ordinary requests of the dying, a message to carry, a task to complete, one more trip somewhere before the end.

What he said instead stopped my breath.

“Pretend you’re my daughter,” he said.

“Until I’m gone.

I know how that must sound.

I know it’s a strange thing to ask a young woman I’ve known only a few weeks.

But life separated me from my little girl before she was even born, and I have carried that emptiness my whole life, and before I go, just once, I would like to know what it feels like.