When I first met Amira, she was just three years old—tiny curls bouncing, clutching a worn-out stuffed giraffe, and watching the world with wide, cautious eyes. By the time she turned four, she started calling me “Daddy” on her own, like it had always been my name. I didn’t force it. I didn’t ask for it. I just kept showing up.
Her biological father, Jamal, was already fading in and out like bad weather—sometimes there for a weekend, often gone for months. But I wasn’t there to replace anyone. I was there to stay. First loose tooth, first scary stomach bug, first-day-of-school jitters—I was the one holding her hand through it all.
Life was steady and good, until she turned ten. That’s when Jamal suddenly decided to “step up.” There were texts about bonding, about court-ordered weekends he’d ignored for years. We couldn’t block him. We couldn’t stop him. And Amira, hopeful and hurting, tried to give him a chance. Around then, she stopped calling me Daddy. She didn’t call him that either. For me, it was just “Josh” again. Logical, maybe—but it cut deep. Still, I kept showing up.
Then one night, my phone lit up with a text: “Can you come get me?” She was outside waiting when I arrived, backpack slung over her shoulder. She climbed in, buckled up, and asked in the smallest voice: “Can I just call you Dad again? For real this time?”
I laughed, I cried, I squeezed her hand, and I kept driving.
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