I never imagined I’d find love again after losing my husband when our daughter Eva was only two. For years, it was just the two of us—quiet breakfasts, bedtime stories, and the ache of the empty chair at our table. Then Steve entered our lives.
Gentle, patient, warm.
He never tried to replace Eva’s father, but he became the steady presence she had longed for. The first time she called him “Daddy,” he cried.
I thought it was fate giving us a second chance. On our wedding day, I walked down the aisle feeling lighter than I had in years.
Eva tossed petals ahead of me, giggling, her tiny hands clutching her basket.
When Steve and I said our vows, I believed every word. I believed him. Hours later, during the reception, the music was loud and joyful.
People danced, laughed, clinked glasses.
I was spinning in happiness—until I felt a little tug at my dress. Eva looked up at me, her eyes round, trembling.
“Mom,” she whispered, “look at Daddy’s arm. I don’t want a new daddy.”
