Whenever I asked what was wrong, he said he was tired.
Three weeks into hospice, he reached beneath his pillow and handed me an old photograph. A solemn sixteen-year-old girl stared back at me.
“Her name is Grace,” he said. “I need you to adopt her before I die.”
The request froze me.
I demanded to know who she was. David only asked me to trust him and said she had no one else.
“Is she your daughter?”
He closed his eyes as a tear slid down his cheek.
“Please don’t make me explain now. Bring her home first.”
Continue on the next page:
