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I had a dream a few years ago. In it, I was holding baby girl. I have no idea what her name was, where she had come from, who or where the mother might’ve been. But I knew – with complete certainty – that she was mine; that she was my daughter.

I held her and she needed nothing. She didn’t cry, but rather serenely gazed up into my face as I gazed in love and wonder and pure contentment back. I didn’t need to know her name; she was contentment made flesh. She was the distillation of everything good and peaceful and loving inside of me magnified by a million and reflected back.

I woke from this dream and knew that this was my daughter not yet made flesh. And that she and I had a perfect love for each other that nothing could possibly sever. Which came in handy once Sam, my daughter, was actually born…because my life went to complete and utter shit by the time she was six months old.

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