The first time she called me “Dad,” it slipped out in the freezer aisle at the grocery store. I stared very hard at a bag of frozen peas so no one would notice my face.
I adopted her.
I moved to a steadier schedule. Opened a college savings account as soon as I could afford it. I made sure she never questioned whether she was wanted. When she asked about her past, I told her the truth in pieces she could carry.
“You didn’t lose everything,” I always ended with. “We found each other.”
She grew into someone remarkable.
Funny. Sharp. Stubborn. She had my sarcasm and her biological mother’s eyes, deep and warm, the only thing I knew about that woman from a single photo in a hospital file. She loved to draw. Hated math. Pretended not to cry at animal rescue commercials.
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