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Fatherhood is what you stay for.
The following Sunday was the first one in ten years I didn’t go to the cemetery.
I woke before sunrise from habit and stood in the kitchen wearing socks, staring at the week-old bouquet. The white roses remained untouched, slowly opening themselves beneath the morning light.
“Are you going today, Dad?”
I looked at the flowers.
Not because I stopped loving.
Anna slipped her hand into mine the way she used to while crossing parking lots as a little girl. Together we stood there in the quiet kitchen.
But I know this:
Love did not disappear simply because the truth arrived late.
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