Because the man who had missed Thanksgivings and anniversaries and an eighth birthday, the man who had belonged for eleven years more to the hospital than to us, was suddenly, wholly, ours.

He made Lily’s breakfast every single morning, even when it grew difficult, even when it took him twice as long as it once had.

He walked her to the bus stop every morning and stood there waving until the bus turned the corner and was gone, every single day, as though each one might be the one she would most want to remember.

He was there for every school recital, every ordinary supper, every quiet unremarkable Tuesday evening of the kind he had spent a decade missing.