AN: I haven't published anything in years and I don't know really why. I still wrote, but it never was something I really liked. But when I got the idea for this fic, I couldn't stop writing. The idea itself came from a book I re-read, No second chance. The first chapter is a bit similar to the one from the book, but I also added a few things, because my story will take another turn. So, for those who know the book, don't worry—the first chapter will be the only part that will be similar to the book. In my opinion, my English grammar sucks sometimes (I'm from Germany) so If someone would like to beta for me, it would be nice if you could write me.

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own Gilmore Girls or any of its characters—except for Lena. If I did, the last season would have ended in a proper way.

When the first bullet hit my chest, I thought of my daughter.
At least, that's what I want to believe. I lost consciousness pretty quickly, and, if you want to get technical about it, I don't even remember getting shot—or how, for that matter. I know that I lost way too much blood and I know that a second bullet skimmed the top of my head—though, I was probably already out by then.

I also know that my heart stopped beating. Still, I like to think that as I lay dying, I thought of Lena

FYI: I saw no bright light or tunnel, and if I did, I don't remember that, either.

Lena, my daughter, was just six months old, lying in her crib when it happened. I wonder if the gunfire frightened her. It must have. She probably began to cry. I wonder if the familiar—albeit, grating—sound of her cries somehow sliced through my haze, if on some level I actually heard her. But again, I have no memory of it.

What I do remember, however, was the moment Lena was born.. It was something you never forget. I remembered the head appearing. I was the first one to see our daughter.

My wife and I have had our ups and downs over the years that we had been together—I'm not going to lie about it—and there had been several times where I had feared that we wouldn't find our way back to each other, but, somehow, we always did.

I had to admit that most of it was my fault. At some point, I took her for granted, not realizing that I still had to work on our relationship, that she wouldn't be there forever if I didn't show her how much she meant to me. No one, including our families and friends, thought we would make it as far as we did. Somehow, we proved them wrong. I know it sounds cliché, but I thought we belonged together.

But when your own child is born, you instantly realize that everything was worth it—the yelling, the fights, the mistakes we made—when you hold your baby for the first time in your arms.

Fatherhood is still confusing me. After such a short amount of time, I'm still an amateur. But I'm willing to learn. You should know that I didn't learn or know how to be a good father—my own father didn't really set a good example and when I think about it now, I can't remember just one time my father took me to a baseball game or went with me to the park. It just wasn't in it for me.

As a child, I was not bitter about it—I didn't know better. I always believed him when he told me that he would do something with me the next day, what else was I supposed to do?

I was just a child. He bought me gifts almost on a daily basis, maybe that his way of making up for the non-existent, father-son relationship we had.

I was scared that I would turn out to be like my dad was with we with Lena—that was my biggest concern when my wife had told me that she was pregnant. I had been happy, but also very scared. However, she always knew how to react to my insecurities, she had known I would be different, and of course she had been right.

Sure, I'm not the perfect dad. I still make mistakes, but I'm working hard on it. My family always comes first, something my own father had never been able to do.

But when I got seriously lost or afraid in the realm of raising a child, and my wife was not nearby, I would look at the helpless bundle in the crib and she'd look up at me, making me wonder what I would not do to protect her. I would take my life in a second. And truth be told, if push came to shove, I would take yours too.

So I like to think that as the two bullets pierced my body, as I collapsed onto our kitchen floor with a half-eaten pop-tart in my hand, as I lay immobile in a spreading puddle of my own blood, and yes, even as my heart stopped beating, that I still tried to do something to protect my daughter.

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