My son left his eight-year-old adopted daughter burning with a 104-degree fever so he could take his biological son on a luxury cruise. They thought no one would know. Until my phone rang at 2:00 a.m.

I stood up, picked her up, and carried her to the oversized recliner in the living room. I wrapped her in my thickest wool blanket and brought her a mug of warm tea and honey. Then, I grabbed a cool washcloth from the bathroom and sat down beside her, gently pressing it against her forehead.

She looked at me, her eyes wide, waiting for the anger, the impatience, the irritation that had defined her existence in her previous home.

It never came.

I stayed in that chair for the next six hours. I read her three chapters of The Hobbit. I checked her temperature. I wiped her brow. I let her fall asleep with her head resting on my arm, the steady rhythm of her breathing the only sound in the room.

Around 3:00 AM, she stirred. Her fever had broken. She looked up at me, blinking in the dim light of the floor lamp.

“You stayed awake,” she whispered, a profound sense of awe in her voice.

“Of course I did,” I replied, smoothing a damp curl away from her face.

“But you’re tired. I’m taking up your time.”

I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, the smell of her shampoo mixing with the scent of chamomile tea.