Finding Hope

M y daughters don’t remember the meetings I didn’t miss. They don’t remember how late I stayed at the office, or how many times I said, “Not now. Daddy’s busy.” But I do. I remember the bedtime stories I didn’t read. The walks I cut short. The laughter I missed while trying to impress people who would never call me “Dad.” They don’t remember. But I do. And I carry that— like a suitcase I’ll never fully unpack. Maybe that’s part of fatherhood. Realizing you can’t go back and read the stories you missed. You can’t take the walks you hurried through or hear the laughter that already happened. But you can be there for tonight’s story. Tonight’s walk. Tonight’s laughter. I finally am.

  I didn’t tell Erin the truth. I told her we were going to “look” at a dog to foster. Just a short-term thing. Temporary. I may have even tossed in the words “small” and “doesn’t shed.” Lies. All lies. Her name was Blossom then. A German Shepherd–Collie mix with one ear standing like a soldier and the other slouching halfway down her head, like it had given up on life and applied for early retirement. But when we met her in the foster family’s backyard, it was clear...this dog wasn’t playful. She was broken. She ran because they threw a bone, not because she wanted to. She spun in frantic little circles, almost performing for us, and when she stopped, she started snapping at bees. It wasn’t silly. It wasn’t cute. It was desperation. Like even the air around her was an enemy. And her eyes… Her eyes were empty. Like somebody had stolen her soul and walked away with it. I felt Erin’s eyes on me. My wife is nobody’s fool. She was already calculating the pounds of fur this enormous ani...