“I know, sweetheart.”
Sophie had cried.
Gideon had cried too.
He didn't hide it.
He didn't believe children should be taught that grief was something adults had to conceal.
After the funeral, Sophie became quieter.
Days passed.
Weeks passed.
Her room remained exactly as Elena had left it.
The pink curtains.
The books.
The little crown.
The stuffed animals.
One evening, Gideon found Sophie sitting on the floor beside her bed.
She was holding a princess doll.
It had belonged to Elena.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Sophie looked up.
“Nothing.”
Gideon sat beside her.
“What are you thinking about?”
“My mom.”
He nodded.
“Me too.”
Sophie looked at the doll.
“She said princesses get happy endings.”
Gideon didn't answer immediately.
“Do they?”
Sophie asked.
Gideon looked at her.
“I think they do.”
“Even when someone dies?”
That question broke something inside him.
Gideon took a breath.
“I think happy endings can look different than we expect.”
Sophie stared at him.
“How?”
“I don't know yet.”
That was the honest answer.
He didn't know.
But that night, Gideon made a promise.
He would find a way to make Sophie smile again.
Even if it took everything he had.
Gideon had never been good at small gestures.
He was a man of enormous actions.
When his motorcycle club needed money for a member's medical treatment, Gideon sold one of his prized motorcycles.
When a friend's house burned down, Gideon and several club members rebuilt the entire garage.
When someone broke down on the highway, Gideon stopped.
Always.
It didn't matter whether it was raining.
It didn't matter whether it was midnight.
He stopped.
But with Sophie, none of his usual solutions worked.
He couldn't repair grief with a wrench.
He couldn't rebuild her mother's life.
He couldn't bring Elena back.
He couldn't make a child forget the person she loved most.
So he did the only thing he could.
He stayed.
He made breakfast.
He walked Sophie to school.
He listened.
He sat beside her when she couldn't sleep.
He answered the same questions repeatedly.
And when she wanted to talk about her mother, he listened.
When she wanted silence, he gave her silence.
One night, Sophie asked him something.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mommy have a favorite princess?”
Gideon smiled.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Cinderella.”
“Why?”
“She said Cinderella was strong.”
Sophie looked thoughtful.
“Mommy was strong.”
“She was.”
“Does that mean Mommy was a princess?”
Gideon nodded.
“Absolutely.”
Sophie smiled for the first time that day.
Then she asked:
“If Mommy was a princess, where's her castle?”
Gideon looked around the small house.
“This isn't a castle?”
Sophie laughed.
“No.”
“Seems like a castle to me.”
“Grandpa.”
“All right.”
She climbed into bed.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Gideon closed the door.
Then he stood in the hallway.
His eyes fell on the old photograph of Elena.
He stared at it.
“You hear that?” he whispered.
The house was silent.
“She thinks you're a princess.”
He smiled sadly.
Then an idea came to him.
Not a perfect idea.
Not something that would solve everything.
But something.
A few days later, he asked Sophie:
“If you could have any princess doll in the world, which one would you choose?”
She thought carefully.
“Cinderella.”
“Only Cinderella?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe what?”
“All of them.”
Gideon laughed.
“All of them?”
Sophie nodded.
“I want a princess castle.”
“What kind?”
“The biggest one.”
“How big?”
“Bigger than our house.”
Gideon raised an eyebrow.
“That might be difficult.”
She smiled.
“You're a biker.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You can do anything.”
Gideon looked at her.
That sentence stayed with him.
Children believed things adults had forgotten how to believe.
So Gideon made another promise.
“All right.”
He smiled.
“We'll get you every princess.”
Sophie laughed.
“You can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are too many.”
Gideon leaned closer.
“Never underestimate your grandfather.”
That was how Gideon ended up standing in the toy store.
Rachel had never seen anyone buy toys quite like this.
One by one, the dolls disappeared into the cart.
Cinderella.
Belle.
Ariel.
Snow White.
Jasmine.
Aurora.
Rapunzel.
Merida.
Tiana.
Elsa.
Anna.
More followed.
Gideon checked each package carefully.
Rachel watched.
“You're serious.”
“I told you.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
She looked toward the shelves.
“We might have to check the stockroom.”
“Let's do that.”
Rachel smiled.
“Okay.”
She disappeared into the back.
Gideon waited.
A few minutes later, she returned with two boxes.
“More.”
Gideon nodded.
“Put them in the cart.”
Rachel did.
Then she noticed something.
Gideon wasn't choosing the most expensive dolls.
He wasn't choosing based on packaging.