The little girl who calls me “Daddy Mike” isn’t mine by blood—but she’s mine in every way that matters. I’m the man who shows up every morning, parks my bike two houses down, and walks her to school at 7 a.m. sharp. She lives with her grandmother, and at eight years old, she still races toward me like I’m her whole world.
“Daddy Mike!” she shouts, launching herself into my arms.
Her grandmother always watches from the doorway with watery eyes. She knows the truth. Keisha knows it too. But love doesn’t always follow biology, and sometimes a child creates her own definition of “dad.”
Three years ago, I found her crying behind a shopping center. I didn’t know her name, her story, or the storm she had survived—only that she needed help. I stayed with her until help arrived, offered my jacket, held her hand when she was shaking. I thought that would be the end of it.
But Keisha didn’t want to let go.
The next day, I visited. And then the next. Before long, I became the one consistent person she could count on—showing up at her grandmother’s house, attending school events, learning to braid her hair from online videos, and becoming someone she could trust again.
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