It becomes the kind of love that wakes up at 3 a.m. to rock a baby back to sleep. The kind that apologizes without being asked. The kind that learns that softness isn’t weakness — it’s courage.
Now, when I look at my husband holding our daughter, I see the man I fell in love with — not perfect, not unflawed, but changed. And I see myself, too — stronger, more open, more grateful for the chance to begin again.
And sometimes, that’s the most beautiful kind of rebirth there is.
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