My father wasn’t always a priest. Before the quiet halls of the church, before the black cassock and silver cross, he was simply a husband and a father. When my mother died, something in him broke—and something else was reborn. In his grief, he turned to God not out of fear, but out of love. Becoming a priest wasn’t an escape. It was his way of surviving. I am his only child. I am everything he has left. He raised me with kindness, patience, and a warmth that never faded, even after loss hollowed him out. He never forced faith on me. He never raised his voice. His love was never conditional. To him, God was love—and love was never cruel. I’m 20 now. What he doesn’t know is that I don’t believe in God anymore. I’ve carried that secret quietly, afraid not of his anger, but of disappointing him. Yet deep down, I know the truth: he would never be mad. He would listen. He always listens. Recently, my health has been failing. Doctors have run out of answers. They speak in soft voices, avoid my eyes, and use words like “miracle” when medicine can no longer help. My father prays every night. For me. He holds my hands like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. Sometimes I catch him watching me with that same expression he had when my mother was dying—hope tangled painfully with fear. He doesn’t know that I’m sick enough to need a miracle. He doesn’t know that I no longer believe in the one he prays to. And yet… I am alive because of him. I am strong because of him. And if a miracle exists, maybe it doesn’t come from heaven. Maybe it comes from love.