Every morning, she reached toward the bedroom door looking for her mother. Every evening, she asked for the same lullaby. Sometimes she woke crying, and I carried her through the house until she fell asleep against my shoulder.
My mother helped whenever she could.
She stayed with us during the week, prepared meals, and reminded me to eat something other than sandwiches. But she had health problems of her own, and I couldn't expect her to become a full-time caregiver indefinitely.
Eventually, I hired a nanny.
She was wonderful with our daughter, but even with help, I struggled.
My business was expanding.
We had projects in several cities.
Employees relied on me to make decisions, and clients expected answers no matter what was happening in my personal life.
I told myself I was working for my daughter's future.
Every contract.
Every late meeting.
Every weekend spent reviewing construction schedules.
I believed that if I provided enough security, she would never have to worry about money the way I had growing up.
But financial security and emotional security weren't the same thing.
I was beginning to forget that.
Then I met the woman who would become my second wife.
We met at a professional fundraiser organized by a local children's education charity.
She was charming, intelligent, and apparently thoughtful. She worked in corporate administration and had two children from a previous marriage. Her son was eight at the time, and her daughter was six.
She spoke warmly about raising children.
She understood the difficulties of balancing work and family.
And she seemed genuinely interested in my little girl.
When I told her that my first wife had died, she didn't offer the empty reassurances I'd heard from so many people.
She listened.
Then she said, "Nobody should have to raise a child while grieving alone."
I remember how much those words meant to me.
For the first time in months, I felt understood.
We began dating slowly.
At first, I was careful.
I didn't introduce her to my daughter immediately, and I spent time learning about her life before allowing the relationship to become serious.
She spoke often about her children.
She told me they were bright, energetic, and sometimes difficult, but that she believed families needed patience.
When I finally introduced her to my daughter, she arrived carrying a small stuffed rabbit.
My little girl loved it.
She called it her bedtime bunny and insisted on bringing it everywhere.