At first, she was the little face I saw in pictures when her mother and I began dating. When the time was right, she was the tiny body standing cautiously in the corner of the living room — wondering, waiting. Before long, she was the small hand in mine as we crossed the street, the smile to prove she had brushed her teeth and the curious voice whispering until we fell asleep. It began to feel as if she were mine. Now, six months after the split with her mother, I realize she was not mine. But I loved her. — Nicole DeMouth

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