You Say I’m Not Your Dad? Then Let’s Discuss What I Actually Am

After that, little things shifted. She slid her chemistry book toward me with a grunt meaning “help.” We watched her movie pick and she teased me about my awful TikTok attempt. She casually invited me to her art show.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, and meant it.

At the show, her eyes searched the crowd, landed on Claire and me. A real, unpracticed smile. Her painting depicted a tree with two trunks entwined at the base—one sturdy, one growing beside it. Caption: “Not all roots are visible.”

“What’s it mean?” I asked.

“Just something I thought about,” she said. “Some people grow because someone’s always been there, even if no one notices.”

I didn’t push. “It’s beautiful,” I said.

Days later, she handed me a Father’s Day card: “You may not be my dad. But you’re my Mike. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

I tucked it in my wallet. Still there.

Years passed. She graduated. I hauled boxes up three flights, set up a wobbly dorm lamp. At the door she said, “I know I was hard on you.”

“It’s in the teen manual,” I said.

“No, really. You didn’t quit when I gave you every reason to.”

“I promised your mom—and myself—I’d always be here.”

“You were,” she said, hugging me until my ribs ached.

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