I never adopted Amira. Legally, I was a passive observer. No voice. No standing. It broke me.
Zahra calmed us down.
“Let’s do this properly,” she said. “If that’s what she wants, we’ll start the adoption.”
Over macaroni and cheese, Zahra gently broached the subject.
“What would you think if Josh—if Dad—officially adopted you?”
Amira winked.
“I thought he’d already done that.”
Not yet, we told her.
“That’s what I want,” she said.
We began a paperwork marathon. Background checks. Interviews. Home visits. A folder thick enough to prop open a door. Jamal protested. He called it alienation. He said we were stealing his daughter.
Meanwhile, Amira had to speak to the child advocate. I had to explain love in terms of dates and points—to convince strangers of something that was already familiar in our home.
At the final hearing, the judge looked at the files, then at Amira.
“What do you want, honey?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“I want Josh to be my real father. He already is. He’s the one left.”
I stopped breathing. The judge nodded, made a note, and said she’d issue the order within a week.
Six weeks later, the envelope arrived. It was official. I am, in every way that matters—and now even in the way that lawyers care—her father.
We celebrated by eating takeout and watching a loud movie she’d chosen. Halfway through the movie, she leaned against my shoulder and whispered,
“Thank you for not leaving me.”
I kissed her hair.
“It never occurred to me.”
I have no thesis except this: biology isn’t a qualification. It’s about showing up. Consistency. The people you’re meant to have in your life aren’t always the ones who start the race with you—they’re the ones who keep up with you when it’s uphill, raining, and no one claps.
So yes—I’m her dad. On her phone. On paper. And the only place where it counts.
And if you’ve stepped into a child’s life and loved them like your own, don’t give up. It matters more than you think.
