I was ten when my mom remarried, and honestly, I wasn’t thrilled about it.
Jim felt like a stranger suddenly dropped into the middle of our lives, an outsider trying to fill a place I didn’t think anyone could occupy. That winter, my school hosted a holiday concert, and somehow I’d been chosen for a small solo.
Mom was stuck at work and couldn’t be there, so I stepped onto the brightly lit stage feeling completely alone. My hands shook, my voice faltered, and for a moment, I froze. Then, from the very back of the auditorium, a cheer rang out — loud, clear, and meant just for me.
When I looked up, there he was: Jim, still in his work jacket, snow clinging to his shoulders, clapping like I was the only performer that mattered. He gave me a huge thumbs-up, pride shining on his face in a way I …
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