My name is Edward Mendez, and exactly one year ago, I was a walking corpse. I had bank accounts in Switzerland, properties on the Florida Coast, and a penthouse in Upper East Side with views of all Manhattan. But I also had stage four lung cancer and a calendar in my mind that marked an implacable countdown: forty-two days.
That November afternoon, the rain was falling fine and cold over Manhattan, that pervasive drizzle that soaks you to the bone. I left Dr. Reynolds’ clinic, my lifelong friend, with the death sentence ringing in my ears. I dismissed my chauffeur. I needed to feel the cold, I needed to feel something that wasn’t that terrifying emptiness in my chest.
I walked aimlessly, moving away from the luxury boutiques of Madison Avenue, crossing Park Avenue, and venturing into neighborhoods where the facades were not marble, but exposed brick and hanging laundry. My leather-soled shoes slipped on the wet pavement. I don’t know how long I walked, maybe hours, until my legs, weakened by the illness, begged for a truce in a small public square in a working-class neighborhood, perhaps near the Lower East Side.
I sat on a stone bench, ignoring the dampness. And there she was.
She was just a small bundle huddled against the wall of a bakery, seeking the warmth escaping from the ventilation grates. The smell of freshly baked bread contrasted cruelly with her appearance. I approached. She had hair as black as a raven’s wing, tangled, and her face was smudged with soot. But her eyes… my God, those deep, dark eyes pierced my soul.
—”Are you hungry?” I asked. My voice sounded strange, unaccustomed to kindness. The girl nodded slightly, still looking at me with distrust. “And your parents?” —”I don’t have any,” she whispered. Her accent was local, a genuine New Yorker. —”No one? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?” —”No one. I’m alone.”
That word, alone, echoed in the empty square and bounced around inside me. I was surrounded by employees, partners, and lawyers, but I was lonelier than that girl. —”Me too,” I confessed, sitting next to her on the dirty ground. “My name is Edward.” —”Valerie.”
We ate two ham sandwiches and drank two juices from the bakery in silence. Watching her eat, with that urgency, with that fear that the food would disappear, broke something inside me. And then, the crazy idea. Or the extreme lucidity of someone who has nothing to lose.
—“Valerie,” I said, wiping crumbs from my suit. “Would you like to come with me?” She tensed up. The street teaches distrust quickly. —“Where?” she asked, frowning. —“To my house. I have a big room. Heating. Food.” —“Are you bad?” she asked directly, her hand in her pocket as if she held a knife or a rock. —“No. I’m dying, Valerie. I don’t have much time left. And I don’t want to be alone.” She scrutinized me. Children know how to see the truth better than adults. —“How much time?” —“A week,” I lied, or maybe not. Maybe that was all I could endure. “Do you want to be my daughter for one week? I’ll give you everything you need. Just… keep me company.”
Valerie thought about it. She looked at her broken sneakers, then at the dark street looming, and finally at my eyes. —“Okay,” she said. And she held out a small, dirty hand. When her hand squeezed mine, I felt an electric shock. Not of pain, but of life.
We hailed a taxi. The driver gave us a look because of the girl’s appearance, but a fifty-dollar bill silenced his protests. As we drove along the highway toward the center, Valerie pressed her nose to the window, fascinated by the city lights that, for her, had always been far away.
Upon arriving at my stately building on East 60th Street, the doorman nearly fainted. But it was when we entered the penthouse that reality hit us. Carmen, my housekeeper of twenty years, a woman with a strong character but a heart of gold, came out into the foyer. —“Mr. Mendez! We weren’t expecting you…” Her gaze fell on Valerie. “Who is this creature? Good heavens, she looks like a mess!” —“Her name is Valerie, Carmen. And she is going to stay with us.” —“Stay? But sir… where did she come from? Are you sure? She might have lice, diseases…” —“Carmen!” my voice thundered, surprising myself with its strength. “Prepare the guest room, the blue one. And tell Rosa to prepare a proper dinner. Beef stew soup, potato omelet, whatever, but hot and plentiful. And prepare a bath for her.” Carmen, seeing the determination in my eyes, and perhaps the infinite sadness that usually inhabited them, nodded and crossed herself before taking the girl away.
That night, we ate together in the mahogany dining room, a table for twelve occupied only by two. Valerie, already bathed and wearing flannel pajamas that Carmen had found (they belonged to my late niece), looked different. Smaller, more vulnerable. She ate the potato omelet closing her eyes, savoring every bite. —“Is it good?” I asked. —“It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” she replied with her mouth full. I, who hadn’t had an appetite for months, ate. And the food tasted wonderful.
After dinner, I walked her to her room. She was amazed by the canopy bed. —“Is all this for me?” —“Yes, Valerie. Rest.” —“Edward…” she called out as I was about to turn off the light. “Are you really going to die?” I sat on the edge of the bed. —“Yes, sweetie. I’m sick.” —“Does it hurt?” —“Sometimes. But today… today it hurts less.” She snuggled under the duvet. —“Thank you for the omelet. And for the bed.” —“Good night, daughter,” I whispered. The word came out on its own.
I went to my study, but I couldn’t work. For the first time in months, I didn’t think about my will or the sharp pain in my chest. I thought that I had to buy chocolate cereal for breakfast.
The next morning, I woke up without the usual cough. The sun was streaming through the curtains. I went down to the kitchen and found Valerie and Rosa, my cook, laughing. Rosa was teaching her to dip churros in hot chocolate. —“Good morning, Papa Edward!” Valerie shouted. She immediately covered her mouth, scared by the slip. I felt a lump in my throat, but I smiled. —“Good morning, Valerie.”
That day we went shopping. Saks Fifth Avenue, the shops on Madison Avenue. People stared at us: the Businessman of the Year and a girl who jumped for joy with every bag. I bought her dresses, coats, and most importantly: a bicycle. —“I’ve never had a bike,” she confessed to me. We went to Central Park. Despite my fatigue, I ran behind her, pushing her, teaching her to balance. —“Don’t let go of me, Edward!” —“You’re riding alone! Look!” Valerie pedaled, her laughter echoing among the ancient trees, and I… I was breathing. My lungs, those traitors that were killing me, seemed to fill with pure air for the first time in years.
Three days passed. Three days of laughter, board games by the fireplace, watching Disney movies until we fell asleep on the sofa. On the fourth day, I had a check-up with Reynolds. I took Valerie with me. —“Who is this young lady?” the doctor asked, surprised. —“She’s my daughter, Reynolds. Valerie.” While running tests, Reynolds frowned repeatedly. He checked the monitors, tapped the machines. —“What’s wrong?” I asked, fearing the worst. —“I don’t understand, Edward. Your oxygen levels have gone up. The inflammation around the tumor has decreased. It’s… impossible.” I looked at Valerie, who was drawing in a notebook in the waiting room. —“It’s not impossible, Reynolds. It’s medicine for the soul.”
We went home celebrating with ice cream, even though it was November. But happiness is fragile, and fate has a macabre sense of humor. Upon arriving at the building entrance, the doorman stopped me. —“Mr. Mendez, there is a woman waiting for you in the lobby. She says she has come for the girl.” I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over me. Valerie hid behind my leg, trembling. —“It’s her,” she whispered. “It’s Aunt Maryann. The bad woman.”
We went in. A woman in her forties, looking unkempt but dressed pretentiously, was examining a Ming vase as if calculating its price. —“Well, well. So this is where the little rat hides,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her ice-cold eyes. —“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” I demanded, positioning myself in front of Valerie. —“I am Maryann Vazquez. Valerie’s aunt. And her legal guardian. I’m here to take her.” —“No!” Valerie screamed. “I don’t want to go with you! You hit me and lock me up!” Maryann let out a dry laugh. —“Children have a lot of imagination. Mr. Mendez, I appreciate you taking care of my niece these days that she… ran away. But now she’s going home.” —“She says she doesn’t have anyone,” I replied, feeling my anger grow. —“Her mother died in childbirth. Her father… well, her father died four years ago. I am her only family. I have the papers.”
She pulled out a grubby folder and handed it to me. Indeed, there was a birth certificate and guardianship documents. But something about her attitude, the way she looked at the expensive furniture in my house and not at the girl, gave me a bad feeling. —“You are not taking anyone today,” I said with my ruthless negotiator’s voice. “I will call my lawyer. If those papers are real, we’ll talk.” —“Be careful, Mr. Mendez. That could be considered kidnapping. I give you 24 hours. I’ll be back tomorrow with the police.”
Maryann left, leaving a trail of cheap perfume and menace. Valerie was crying inconsolably on the sofa. —“Don’t let her take me, Edward. Please. She makes me beg for money on the subway. And if I don’t bring enough, she doesn’t give me dinner.” I hugged her tight, so tight that I feared breaking her. —“I swear on my life, Valerie. No one is taking you from here.”
I called Richard, the best lawyer in Manhattan and my right-hand man. He arrived in half an hour. —“The situation is complicated, Edward. If she is her biological aunt and has guardianship, the law is on her side. Unless we can prove she is incompetent or abusive.” —“Investigate her. I want to know everything. From what she eats for breakfast to who she talks to. And find the girl’s father. Thomas Jenkins. I want to know what happened to him.”
That night I didn’t sleep. I sat next to Valerie’s bed, watching her sleep, armed with my will and the atrocious fear of losing the only thing that had made me want to live. The next morning, Richard returned with a face that foreshadowed a storm. —“Edward, sit down.” —“What did you find?” —“Maryann Vazquez has a record of fraud and petty theft, but nothing serious that would guarantee taking away custody quickly. But… I found something about the father, Thomas Jenkins.” —“What?” —“Thomas was a construction worker. He worked for a subcontractor on one of your sites, Edward. At The Grand Tower.” The world stopped. I remembered that project. There was an accident. A crane failed. —“He died in the work accident four years ago,” Richard continued. “Your company paid a million-dollar compensation. Three hundred thousand dollars.” —“Who was it paid to?” —“To his daughter’s legal guardian. To Maryann Vazquez.”
My blood boiled in my veins. That woman had collected the money from the father’s death, money intended for Valerie’s future, and had spent it all while the girl was living on the street begging for change. —“Damn it!” I shouted, banging the table. “She spent the money and threw the girl away!” —“There’s more, Edward. In the human resources file, we found a box with Thomas’s personal effects that were never claimed. Maryann took the check, but wanted nothing to do with her brother-in-law’s ‘trash.’ ” Richard placed an old shoe box on my desk. Inside was a cheap watch, a worn wallet, and a sealed envelope. On the envelope, in trembling handwriting, it read: For my girl Valerie, in case I’m ever gone.
My hands trembled as I opened it. I called Valerie. She had to know. We sat in the sunroom. I explained who her father was, that he had worked building the very buildings I designed. That he was a good man. —“Did he write this for me?” she asked, touching the paper as if it were sacred. Since she barely knew how to read, I read it to her.
“My princess Valerie. If you read this, it means Dad is gone. I work hard, climbing very high on the scaffolds, so you can fly even higher. I want you to study, to be happy. Everything I earn is for you. Be careful with your Aunt Maryann, you know she’s not good, but we don’t have anyone else. If something happens to me, look for the good people. The world is full of good people, even if they sometimes hide. I love you more than my life. Dad.”
We cried. Both of us. An old millionaire and an orphaned girl united by the words of a ghost. —“Your dad loved you very much, Valerie. And he worked for me. In a way… I feel like I owed you this.” —“Edward…” she said, wiping her tears. “Do you think my dad sent you to save me?” —“I don’t know, darling. But I think you have saved me.”
The legal battle was fierce. Maryann returned with the police, but Richard managed an emergency court order by presenting the letter and evidence of the inheritance embezzlement. The judge gave us an appointment for a preliminary hearing in 48 hours. But my body decided it was too much emotion. The night before the hearing, I collapsed. I couldn’t breathe. The pain in my chest was unbearable. Carmen called the ambulance. —“No!” I tried to shout. “I have to go to the hearing tomorrow!” But the darkness swallowed me.
I woke up in a hospital room, connected to tubes and monitors. The rhythmic beeping was the only thing I heard. Reynolds was by my side, looking worried. —“What happened?” I croaked. —“A respiratory collapse, Edward. You were about to…” —“What time is it? The hearing?” —“The hearing is in an hour. You can’t go. You’re too weak.” —“I have to go. If I don’t go, they will take her.” —“Edward, if I disconnect you from this, you could die on the way.” I ripped the IV from my arm. Blood stained the white sheets. —“I’d rather die trying than live knowing I abandoned her. Bring me my suit!”
I arrived at the Family Court on Lafayette Street in a wheelchair, pale as a ghost, but with a fire in my eyes. Carlos pushed me at full speed. Upon entering the room, Maryann smiled victoriously. Valerie was sitting in a corner with a social worker, crying silently. When she saw me, her eyes lit up. —“Papa!” The judge banged the gavel. —“Order. Mr. Mendez, you look… terrible. Are you in a condition to proceed?” —“Your Honor,” I said, making a superhuman effort to stand up, leaning on the table. “I am here to fight for my daughter.”
Maryann’s lawyer argued that I was a dying old man, with no biological relation, and that the girl should be with her blood relative. Then, Richard presented the evidence. Maryann’s empty bank statements. The testimonies of neighbors who saw her mistreat the girl. And finally, Thomas’s letter. The judge read the letter in silence. The room held its breath. —“Ms. Vazquez,” the judge said, looking over his glasses at Maryann. “You received three hundred thousand dollars for the care of this minor. Where is that money?” —“I… I invested it. It went wrong.” —“Lies,” I intervened. “She spent it in bingos and on cars, while the daughter of my employee, the man who died building my building, was sleeping on cardboard.”
The judge looked at Valerie. —“Valerie, come here.” The girl approached the stand, small but brave. —“Who do you want to live with?” —“With Edward,” she said without hesitation. “He is my heart-dad. He bought me a bike. He gives me food. And when he is scared because of his illness, I hold his hand. We take care of each other.” The judge, an older man with a reputation for being tough, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. —“Custody is revoked from Ms. Vazquez and her immediate arrest is ordered for fraud and child neglect. Permanent custody of Valerie Jenkins is granted to Mr. Edward Mendez.”
The room erupted. Not in applause, but in a collective sigh of relief. Valerie ran toward me, and I fell to my knees to hug her. —“We won, Papa. We won.” —“Yes, my life. We won.”
But the story doesn’t end there. Six months later, I returned to Reynolds’ office. I had undergone a new experimental treatment, one I was encouraged to try only because I wanted to see Valerie graduate, get married, live. Reynolds looked at the scans, incredulous. —“What’s wrong, Reynolds? How much time do I have left? Weeks?” He turned, a full smile on his face. —“Edward… the tumor has remitted. It hasn’t disappeared entirely, but it’s reduced by 80%. You’re in partial remission.” I couldn’t believe it. —“How?” —“Immunotherapy helped, of course. But I’ve seen many cases. The will to live, Edward… love… it changes the body’s chemistry. That girl has literally saved your life.”
I rushed out of the clinic. Well, fast-walking, I’m an old man now. Valerie was waiting for me in the car, doing her math homework. —“What did the doctor say?” she asked without looking up from the book. —“He said we have a problem.” She looked at me, scared. —“What problem?” —“You’re going to have to put up with me much longer than a week. You’re going to have to put up with me for the rest of your life.”
Valerie dropped the pencil and jumped into my neck, laughing and crying at the same time. That week that was supposed to be the last became the first chapter of our life. Today, Valerie is studying Pre-Med at Columbia University. She says she wants to cure people like me. And I… I’m still here, old and grumpy, but the happiest man in Manhattan. Because I learned that blood makes you related, but only love makes you family. And that sometimes, when you think you are saving someone, it is actually that someone who is saving you.
The Long Road Home
The euphoria of the victory in court was sweet, but reality, as always, waited around the corner. We had the papers, we had custody, but we still had the silent enemy breathing down my neck: cancer.
The morning after the hearing, the routine at the house on East 60th Street changed forever. It was no longer the house of a bitter, dying bachelor; now it was a home. I woke up to a sound that, over time, would become my favorite melody: Valerie singing in the shower. She sang off-key, making up the lyrics to pop songs, but to my ears, it was better than any Beethoven symphony.
I went down to the kitchen. Rosa was preparing breakfast with renewed energy. —“Good morning, Mr. Mendez. The girl asked for pancakes. She says today is a special day.” —“Every day is special now, Rosa.”
Valerie ran down the stairs, wearing her new school uniform. We had chosen a small private school in a good area, where they knew our story and promised discretion and support. The gray dress was a bit big on her, and her white socks were pulled up to her knees with almost military perfection. —“Papa!” she shouted, giving me a kiss on the cheek that smelled of strawberry shampoo. “Do I look pretty?” —“You look beautiful, my life. You look like a congresswoman.” —“I don’t want to be a congresswoman! I want to be a doctor, like Reynolds. To cure you.”
That phrase became her mantra. After so many hospital visits, Valerie had decided her future with the unshakeable determination of a seven-year-old. Dr. Reynolds, delighted, had given her a toy stethoscope, and she “held clinic” for everyone in the house: Carmen, Rosa, even the Persian cat we had adopted because she said the house needed “more life.”
But life was not just games. My experimental treatment began. Combined immunotherapy. Reynolds was clear: “It’s going to be tough, Edward. Your body is going to fight a civil war.” And tough it was.
There were weeks when I couldn’t get out of bed. The fatigue was a lead weight on my bones. Nausea prevented me from eating. In my previous life, I would have suffered this alone, locked in my room, barking orders so no one would see me weak. But now I had Valerie.
I remember one particularly bad afternoon. I had returned from the chemo session and was lying on the living room sofa, shivering despite the heating. I felt a cool little hand on my forehead. —“Does it hurt a lot, Papa?” I opened my eyes. Valerie was there, her eyes full of concern, holding a glass of water with a straw. —“A little, sweetie. But it will pass.” —“I brought you ‘Mr. Ears’,” she said, placing her favorite, tattered rabbit plushie on my chest. “He takes care of me when I’m scared. Now he’ll take care of you.”
She sat on the rug, next to the sofa, and began to read me her science homework. Her monotone, sweet voice, explaining the water cycle or the parts of a plant, became my anchor to reality. While she read, I repeated to myself: I have to endure. I can’t leave her alone. Not now. That girl, who had lived on the street, who had suffered hunger and cold, now took care of me with a maturity that was frightening. We switched roles: I was the sick child and she was the fierce guardian.
—“Papa, you have to eat,” she would tell me with her hands on her hips, mimicking Carmen. “If you don’t eat, the little soldiers in your blood can’t fight the bad bugs.” And I ate. I ate for her. Spoonful by spoonful, swallowing the nausea, because every bite was an act of love toward that child.
Three months passed. Then six. The treatment began to work. Tumor markers dropped. My energy returned, little by little, like the slow but unstoppable rising tide. I started picking her up from school every day. Seeing her walk out that door, looking for me in the crowd of parents and grandparents, and seeing her face light up when she found me, was the best moment of my day. —“Papa!” she would run toward me, throwing her backpack at me. “I got an A in Math today! Carmen helped me with the subtractions.”
In the afternoons, while she did her homework, I started writing. I had always been a man of numbers, plans, and budgets. But I felt the need to document what had happened to us. I started writing a book. Not to publish it, but for her. So that, when I was no longer there (whether in ten years or twenty), she would never forget how we met. I titled it “Seven Days with Her.” I wrote about the first time I saw her in the square, about the first dinner, about the fear, about her father Thomas’s letter. I wrote about how love is not something you seek, but something that finds you and sweeps you away when you least expect it.
One day, my secretary transferred a call to me. —“Mr. Mendez, it’s a journalist from the New York Times. They heard about the court story. They want an interview. They say it’s a human-interest story.” —“Tell them no,” I replied without looking up from the screen. “My life is not a circus. And my daughter’s, even less so.” —“They’re offering the cover of the Sunday magazine.” —“I don’t care if they offer the cover of Time. Valerie will have a normal life. She won’t be ‘the charity case girl’ or ‘the millionaire’s orphan.’ She will be Valerie Mendez, future doctor and the best daughter in the world. Period.”
I protected our privacy like a lion. I rejected television, tabloids, and film producers. Our story was ours.
And so, between homework, doctor visits, Friday night pizzas, and bedtime stories, the day arrived. April. Exactly one year since we met in that grubby square. I woke up with a strange feeling. It wasn’t pain. It was gratitude. A gratitude so immense that it almost hurt. I went down to breakfast. Routine was sacred. Valerie was sitting at the kitchen island, stirring her cereal with a spoon, with a mischievous smile. —“Papa, do you know what day it is today?” —“Hmm…” I pretended to think while pouring coffee. “Thursday? Martian Independence Day?” She laughed. —“No, silly! It’s our anniversary.” —“Anniversary?” —“Yes. A year ago you asked me if I wanted to be your daughter for a week.” I walked over and kissed the top of her head. —“And you said yes. The best deal I’ve ever closed in my life, and I’ve closed many million-dollar deals.” —“You said the week would last forever,” she remembered, becoming serious for a moment. —“And I stand by that. We are on Week 52, and we have thousands more to go.”
I prepared her snack for school: turkey sandwich (cut into triangles, she hated squares), a green apple, and a sticky note where I always put a bad joke or a phrase of encouragement. “To the future Nobel Prize winner in Medicine. I love you, Papa.”
—“Do you have everything ready for the Science test?” I asked, adjusting my tie in front of the foyer mirror. —“Yes. I know the planets by heart. Mercury, Venus, Earth…”—she recited them all as she put on her coat. I patted my pockets. Keys, wallet, phone. Valerie approached stealthily. —“Wait, you’re missing something.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her backpack. It was a sheet of pink paper, the kind they used for crafts at school. —“What is this?” I asked, trying to open it. She stopped me with her little hands. —“No! It’s a surprise. Don’t read it until I’m gone. Promise.” —“Promise,” I said, putting the pink paper in the inside pocket of my jacket, close to my heart. —“Okay. Now give me a kiss.”
I dropped her off at the school gate. I watched her walk in, greeting her friends, self-assured, happy. There was no trace left of the scared girl who feared being abandoned. Now she walked with confidence. I had a check-up with Reynolds that day. —“Edward, this is boring,” Reynolds joked, looking at the results. “You’re stable. Incredibly stable.” —“I have a good reason not to die, Reynolds. I have to pay her college tuition in ten years.”
I went to the office for a while. I signed papers, had meetings, but my mind was on the pink paper burning in my pocket. At three o’clock, I was in the car waiting for her to come out. —“Papa!” she burst in like a whirlwind. “The test was a piece of cake! Uranus is the one with the rings on its side, I remembered because you said it was taking a nap.” —“That’s my girl!” —“What should we do to celebrate the anniversary?” —“The usual?” —“Pizza and a movie!” we shouted in unison.
We went to the supermarket, bought fresh dough, mozzarella, tomato, and ham. It was our Friday tradition, moved up to Thursday for the special occasion. We made the pizza together, dusting the kitchen with flour. Valerie put a little flour on my nose, and I tickled her until she almost wet herself laughing. After dinner, we watched The Lion King for the umpteenth time. Valerie cried when Mufasa died, as always, and snuggled against my chest. —“Good thing you didn’t die, Papa,” she whispered half-asleep. —“I’m tougher than Mufasa, darling.”
I took her to bed. I tucked her in up to her chin. —“Good night, princess.” —“Good night, Papa. I love you to infinity and beyond.” —“And I love you too.”
I closed her bedroom door, leaving a crack open, as she liked. I went to my study, loosened my tie, and poured myself a glass of wine. The house was quiet, but it was a silence full of peace, not the empty silence of a year ago. Then I remembered the note. I took the pink paper from my pocket. It was a bit wrinkled. I unfolded it carefully. Valerie’s handwriting had improved a lot, though she still sometimes wrote her ‘s’s backward.
I read:
“Papa Edward:
A year ago I was very scared and very hungry. You asked me if I wanted to be your daughter for a week. I said yes because I thought you would give me food and then kick me out. But you didn’t kick me out. You gave me a bike, you gave me a bed, and you gave me Carmen and Rosa.
But the most important thing is that you gave me a dad. My dad Thomas wrote to me to look for someone who would look at me with love. And you look at me like that. When you look at me, you don’t see the dirty girl from the street, you see Valerie the doctor.
You always say that you saved me from Aunt Maryann and the street. But I think it’s the other way around. You were very sad and wanted to go to heaven with your family. But you stayed with me. I gave you a reason to fight the bugs in your blood. You gave me a home. I gave you a reason..
Thank you for being my Papa. Don’t die ever, please. Or at least, wait until I’m a doctor to completely cure you.
I love you, Valerie (Your daughter forever)”
I read the letter once. Twice. By the third time, tears were falling onto the pink paper, blurring the blue pen ink. “You gave me a home, I gave you a reason.” What a profound truth in the mind of an eight-year-old girl.
I stood up and went to the window. It was raining softly over Manhattan, just like that night a year ago. But now the rain didn’t seem sad, it seemed to cleanse the city. I looked at my reflection in the glass. I no longer saw the finished, gray, and dying man. I saw a man with gray hair, with wrinkles, but with life in his eyes. I had built skyscrapers that touched the clouds, I had amassed a fortune, but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the success of having been chosen as a father by that girl.
That trial week had long since expired. The temporary contract had become permanent. I turned off the light in the study and went up the stairs to my bedroom. I stopped at Valerie’s door and listened to her breathe, calm, safe. I knew cancer is treacherous. I knew the future is uncertain. But I also knew something with absolute certainty: as long as I had a breath of life left, that breath would be for her.
I went to sleep with a smile, eagerly awaiting the morning to hear her sing off-key in the shower again. Because in the end, life is not measured in weeks, or in diagnoses, or in millions of dollars. Life is measured in the moments when someone looks at you with love and tells you: “Stay a little longer.”
