That one night turned into a week.
The week turned into months of home visits, parenting classes squeezed between twelve-hour shifts, learning how to pack lunches and buy the right cereal and calm nightmares I didn’t know how to fix.
The first time she called me “Dad,” it wasn’t some dramatic moment.
We were in the freezer aisle at the grocery store.
She dropped a box of popsicles and said, “Dad—oops, sorry.”
Then she froze, eyes wide.
I knelt down and said, “You don’t have to say that.”
She nodded slowly. “But… can I?”
