When She Started Calling Me “Daddy”
Six months in, at a school breakfast, she stood up on her chair and pointed at me across the room.
“This is my Daddy Mike!”
I opened my mouth to correct her.
But her grandmother — now using a walker — caught my arm and whispered:
“If calling you daddy helps her heal, please don’t take that away from her.”
So I didn’t.
Not legally.
Not officially.
But every morning, we walked to school and she’d look up at me and ask the question that terrified me:
“You won’t leave me like my real dad, will you?”
And every morning, I said the same thing:
“Never.”
I meant it.
I just didn’t know life was going to test it.
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