June, Ava, and Claire never stopped calling me Dad.
Vanessa never asked them to.
She was simply Vanessa for a long time.
Maybe she always would be.
Maybe one day one of them would call her something else.
That decision belonged to them.
Not me.
Not Vanessa.
Not Aunt Carol.
Them.
And strangely, once I understood that, I felt lighter.
All my life, I had believed love meant holding on tightly enough that no one could disappear.
But the girls had taught me something different.
Love could also mean giving someone room to choose while making sure they knew where home was.
One Sunday morning, I walked into the kitchen and found all four women at the table.
June was laughing.
Ava was arguing about something.
Claire was rolling her eyes.
