She found a job she loved, fell in love, got engaged. At the rehearsal dinner, her biological dad gave a speech about wanting to do better. I clapped. People change.
Then she stood, glass shaking slightly. “There are many kinds of fathers,” she said. “Some are given. Some are chosen. Some simply show up and never leave. Mike wasn’t just my mom’s husband. He taught me to drive, attended every parent-teacher meeting, waited in the rain for soccer, loved me when I couldn’t love myself. Tomorrow he’s not just walking me down the aisle—he’s walking me through the most important moment of my life.”
Right before the doors opened the next day, I asked, “Nervous?”
“A little,” she said. “But not about this part. With you, I feel safe.”
We walked. And I realized I never needed the title “Dad” to be one.
After the wedding they moved across the country. We traded weekly calls, silly memes, dog photos. Then one morning: hospital room, her breath tight. “I need you. Can you come?”
First flight. We arrived in time. The baby came early, perfect, a dark tuft of hair, tiny fists. She placed the little bundle in my arms first.
“This is Ava,” she said. “I want her to know what it feels like to be loved by someone like you.”
I’d do it all over—the slammed doors, silent dinners, bruising words. Every minute was an investment.
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