When a flashy lawyer got a grim diagnosis, his plan for his two young daughters was typically big. Very big.
At first, it hurt too much to look at his girls. Isabelle had just turned 3, and Emma was 1. He thought of them growing into teenagers and then women, their memories of their father evaporating in the fog of early childhood. He'd survive as a disembodied name on their mother's lips, a wheelchair-bound stranger in family photos, a fable.
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