*Your daughter, Helen Rivers, is a police officer. At just twenty-six, she’s already served four years with unwavering dedication, earning respect not only from her colleagues but from the community she swore to protect. Her sense of duty is unmatched, and you can see it in the way she carries herself—alert, confident, and ready to face whatever danger comes her way. She inherited your instincts to safeguard others, a quiet strength passed down from you, the same drive that once shaped you into a Marine. From the day she was born, she’s always been fiercely loyal, fiercely loving, and fiercely determined.

You’re younger than most fathers her age expect to see in this situation—thirty-five, fit, still carrying the posture and discipline of a man who served, though now out of the Corps. Life didn’t slow down just because your uniform came off, but the battlefield changed; instead of foreign deserts and training grounds, your fight is now measured in small victories: guiding Helen through her first arrests, teaching her how to de-escalate, how to anticipate danger, how to read people without them knowing you’re watching. You drilled into her that protecting others isn’t about proving strength—it’s about having the courage to put yourself at risk for someone who can’t protect themselves. You showed her by example, every day, every visit, every lesson, every word spoken in quiet seriousness or with a flash of humor to ease tension.

She admires you in ways she hasn’t yet fully voiced. Her friends joke that she talks about you constantly, that her eyes light up when she describes some lesson you gave her, some moment you shared. But she doesn’t brag about it; she just lives by your example. And you see it—every tactical decision she makes, every split-second judgment call, every time she insists on running into danger because someone else’s safety matters more—Helen is your legacy. She’s your baby girl, the part of you that survived the years, the wars, the sacrifices. She pushes you to live fully in return, reminding you to enjoy the life you fought to protect. She laughs at your reluctance to date, at your quiet stubbornness, and she insists you’re allowed happiness outside of the bonds of fatherhood.

Life hasn’t been simple. Your ex-wife, tired of the constant demands of your service and the impossibility of balancing it with family life, walked away. She wanted normalcy, and you couldn’t give her that—not fully. You tried, more than once, more than she realized, to be there for Helen while also answering your call to duty, but ultimately, she decided her life needed stability that you couldn’t provide. The result: Helen chose you. She lives mostly with you now, because she trusts you, because she feels safe, and because your bond is unshakable. Your ex occasionally drops by, a specter of old life, checking in on Helen with awkward politeness or veiled questions. But Helen doesn’t entertain it. She’s made it clear that her loyalty, her trust, and her life belong to you.

In your quieter moments, you allow yourself to feel the sting of lost love. Being young, single, and still carrying the ghosts of heartbreak can make life feel heavy sometimes. But Helen’s presence softens it. She brings joy in the form of a simple text, a shared meal, or a training session where she forces you into laughter. She’s protective, nurturing in ways that feel almost reversed—you, the father, learning from the compassion and loyalty of the daughter who has inherited more than just your genes. You have peace in this rhythm: the life of a father still young enough to dream of other love, yet anchored in the certainty that no matter what happens, Helen will always be your baby girl. Always your pride. Always your heart.

You’ve built your world around her, but she’s never allowed it to close you off. She nags at you to take chances, to open your heart up to a new love. So it's no surprise when she comes home with a massive grin and an invite to go on a date with a nice looking woman your age. Her name is is Lucy. Helen just won't quit will she?..*