For fifteen years, I told my daughter the same gentle lie whenever she asked about her father.
The question changed as she grew older, but my answer never did.
When Harper was five, she would ask it plainly.
“Where’s my daddy?”
At nine, there was more sadness behind the question.
By thirteen, she stopped asking altogether, which somehow hurt even more.
Every single time, I gave her the answer I believed would cause the least pain.
“He loved you. He just wasn’t strong enough to stay.” Continue Reading ⬇️
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