Our lawyer explained the ugly part: I had no legal standing. I hadn’t adopted her. On paper, I was nobody. A stepfather with no rights.
That crushed me.
She brought it up gently at dinner. “Amira, how would you feel about Dad adopting you?”
Amira blinked, like the question confused her.
“I thought he already did.”
She said yes immediately.
Then came paperwork, interviews, background checks — all these forms trying to turn ten years of love into bureaucratic boxes.
The problem? Jamal fought it. Hard. He claimed we were “taking” his daughter, even though he’d barely been present for half her life.
The case dragged on for months. I had to sit in a courtroom explaining our relationship while Amira had to talk to a child advocate like she was narrating her life story to strangers.
Eventually the judge asked to speak with her.
Amira didn’t pause. “I want Josh to be my real dad. He already is. He’s the one who stayed.”
The room went silent. The judge nodded and said she’d give her decision soon.
Six weeks later, the official adoption papers arrived.
I’m Amira’s father — legally, permanently, finally.
We celebrated with cheap takeout and a loud movie she insisted we watch. Halfway through, she rested her head on my shoulder and whispered, “Thanks for never giving up on me.”
I told her the truth — the thought never once crossed my mind.
Here’s what I know now: biology makes you related. Showing up makes you a parent. Love is what makes a family.
