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“No, really. You didn’t give up when I gave you every reason to.”
“I promised your mom—and myself—I’d be here. Always.”
“You were,” she said, hugging me so tight my ribs ached.
Life moved fast after that. She found work she loved, fell in love herself, and eventually got engaged. At the rehearsal dinner, her biological dad stood up and made a speech about wanting to do better. I clapped. People can change.
Then she stood up, glass trembling a little in her hand. “There are many kinds of fathers,” she said. “Some are given. Some are chosen. And some just show up and never leave. Mike wasn’t just my mom’s husband. He taught me to drive, sat through every parent-teacher meeting, waited in the rain at soccer, and loved me when I couldn’t love myself. Tomorrow, he’s not just walking me down the aisle—he’s walking me through the most important moment of my life.”The next day, right before the chapel doors opened, I whispered, “Nervous?”
“A little,” she said. “But not about this part. With you, I feel safe.”
We walked together. And in that moment, I realized I never needed the title “Dad” to be one.
Years later, when her baby arrived—a tiny girl with a tuft of dark hair—she placed her in my arms first.
“This is Ava,” she said. “I want her to know what it feels like to be loved by someone like you.”
And now, whenever I visit, a small comet comes barreling down the hall screaming “Grandpa Mike!” like I hung the moon. Maybe I did, at least for her.
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