Thirteen years ago, everything changed the moment a three-year-old girl named Avery was rushed into the ER during my first year as a doctor. She had lost her parents that night, and when the nurses tried to move her, she clung to me and begged me not to leave. Something in that fragile moment anchored me to her. With no relatives listed, social services prepared to place her in temporary foster care, but I couldn’t let her be handed off to more strangers. What began as comforting her for one night became weeks of forms, home visits, and learning how to care for a grieving child.

When she first called me “Dad,” it felt like the beginning of something real. Six months later, I adopted her, and raising Avery became my purpose. I shaped my life around her needs—school events, schedules, and creating stability. She grew into a sharp, funny teenager, and although I rarely dated, eventually I met Marisa, a nurse practitioner who seemed kind and supportive.

After months together, I believed I was ready for a future with her—until the night she showed me security footage of someone in a gray hoodie accessing my safe. She claimed it was Avery. Avery insisted her hoodie had been missing for days, so I checked the archived footage myself.