She was three when I met her, all curls and cautious eyes, clutching a stuffed giraffe. By four, she called me “Daddy” on her own. She’s thirteen now, and her biological father drifts in and out like bad weather. One night, while she was with him, my phone lit up: “Can you come get me?” I drove over, and she climbed in, buckled up, and asked quietly, “Can I just call you Dad again? For real this time?” I laughed, cried, and held her hand on the drive home.
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