My 15-year-old granddaughter Olivia lost her mother when she was eight.

I started the process immediately.

I visited her often. We talked about books and animals. She loved owls because, she said, “they see everything.” That stayed with me.

When I finally brought her home, she arrived with a backpack, a stuffed owl, and a notebook of drawings.

The first few days, she barely spoke. She just watched me—carefully.

One night, while I folded laundry, she rolled into the room and asked, “Dad, can I have more juice?”