They remember her as Queen Esther.
But I still call her Hadassah.
She was the soft light that came after the storm, the quiet laughter in a home hollowed out by grief. I did not choose to be a father, but I became one — because she needed someone, and I had no one left.
I never imagined then that this orphan girl I took into my home would one day stand before kings and speak the words that would deliver our people.
And I… I never imagined I would be remembered at all.
But here I sit, older now, my beard grayer, my knees weaker, watching as children run through the streets during Purim, wearing crowns made of parchment, waving scrolls, reciting the story I lived.
They read it like a fable. But I remember the weight of it.
The silence between edicts.
The way fear steals sleep.
The aching wait at the palace gate.
And the prayers — oh, the prayers I whispered to the God who felt distant but never left.
I wasn’t brave the way people think. I didn’t stand before kings — I sent her. I didn’t wield a sword — I wore a sackcloth. But every moment, I watched, I warned, I wept, and I trusted.
There is more to this story than what the scribes recorded.
More than edicts and gallows, banquets and crowns.
There is the quiet story — the one beneath the surface.
My story.
So if you’ll walk with me for a while, I’ll show you what I saw — through my eyes.
