Every morning at exactly 7 AM, I park my Harley two houses down from the little yellow home where eight‑year‑old Keisha lives with her grandmother. I shut off the engine, swing my leg over the bike, and start toward the porch. I never make it to the door — it bursts open every time, and Keisha launches herself at me like a cannonball. “Daddy Mike!” she cries, wrapping her arms around my neck like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. We all know I’m not her biological father. She knows. Her grandmother knows. I know. But that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters...
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