Thirteen years ago, I pulled a three-year-old girl from the wreckage of her life. Her parents were gone. Her hands shook. She clung to my scrubs like they were the last solid thing on earth. I promised I wouldn’t leave.
I never planned to become a mother in a single night, but Avery’s grief wrapped itself around my heart and never let go. Every form, every court date, every background check felt less like bureaucracy and more like a vow: that this child would never again wonder if the person tucking her in might disappear. My career bent around her needs; my social life thinned to almost nothing. Still, watching her transform from a trembling toddler into a fierce, funny teenager made every sacrifice feel small.
