As Daniel grew weaker, the three of us began looking almost like a family.

Then one afternoon, while Lily was at school, he took my hand.

“Marry me.”

I thought I had heard him wrong.

“Daniel, we barely know each other.”

“I love you.”

His voice was weak, but certain.

“And I’m scared.”

He squeezed my hand.

“More than anything, I need to know that when I’m gone, Lily will be with someone who truly loves her.”

By then, I already did.

So I said yes.

We got married in his hospital room.

I wore a simple white sundress.

Lily wore yellow.

She held my hand through the entire ceremony.

Before the wedding, Daniel had already completed the legal paperwork naming me as Lily’s guardian after his death.

Two weeks later, he was gone.

Lily and I moved into his house.

The silence there felt different after him.

Heavy.

Like the rooms were waiting for a sound that would never come.

That first year was difficult.

We grieved him together.

Through burned pancakes.

Nightmares at two in the morning.

Random crying spells.

But slowly, Lily and I created things that belonged only to us.

Friday pancakes shaped like whatever animal she requested.

A ridiculous song we made up in the car.

Movie nights with our feet tangled together on the couch.

She became my daughter in all the ways that mattered long before either of us knew how to describe it.

Then came the first anniversary of Daniel’s funeral.

Lily had been unusually quiet for several days.

That afternoon, I was stirring soup when she walked into the kitchen carrying a small box.

“Dad told me to give this to you today.”

I turned around.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

She held it carefully.