Today Sophie is seven. Her laughter fills the house; her hair curls softly again; her bedtime arguments are spirited and dramatic. We still attend checkups, still hold our breath for results, still keep the hallway light on at night.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Sometimes I stand in her doorway and remember the moment she first asked if we were still here. We are. We stayed.
I did not carry her into the world—but when life grew frightening and uncertain, we carried her through it. And that, more than blood or history, is what makes us family.
