She was three when I met her—curly hair, a wary gaze, and a stuffed giraffe clutched like armor. When she was four, she started calling me “Daddy,” as if that had always been my name. Now she’s thirteen. Her biological father appears and disappears like bad weather. Last night, she was with him when my phone lit up:
“Can you come pick me up?”
I pulled up. She was already outside, her backpack slung over her shoulder. She got in, buckled her seatbelt, and asked in a low voice:
“Can I call you Daddy again? For real this time?”
I laughed. I cried. I squeezed her hand. And I kept driving.
When I met Zahra, her daughter, Amira, was still in diapers. Her biological father, Jamal, was already fading—a gift from one weekend, months later. I didn’t come to replace anyone. I just stayed. First tooth. First stomach flu. First tears at school. Small victories and long nights.
One afternoon, standing in the kitchen, she shouted,
“Dad, juice!”
I almost dropped my cup. Zahra and I looked into each other’s eyes. She didn’t correct her. She didn’t have to.
