I grabbed my keys and went straight there. When I pulled up outside Jamal’s building, she was already waiting, backpack half open, arms wrapped around herself, eyes glued to the street like she had been tracking every car that passed.
As soon as she buckled her seatbelt, she looked at me and asked, in a small, nervous voice, “Is it okay if I call you Dad again? For real this time?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or pull over to hug her — so I sort of did all three at once. She had no idea how much those words meant after a decade of being in her life.
When I met Zahra, she was raising a toddler on her own. Amira was still waddling around with crooked pigtails and socks that never matched. Jamal was already fading in and out — one month showering her with promises, the next disappearing like smoke. I never understood how someone could be so inconsistent in a child’s life and still expect the world to revolve around them.
I never tried to replace him. I just showed up. Every single day. Every milestone, every school moment, every nightmare. I was the steady person in her life — the lunches, the sick days, the preschool events. Eventually she started calling me “Daddy,” and it fit us both.
Then she turned ten, and Jamal suddenly decided it was time to “step up.” Weekends, holidays, “quality time” — he wanted the title without the investment. We couldn’t legally stop him, and we saw the pressure building inside Amira.
And then her text came.
Continue reading…
