She was three when I met her, all curls and cautious eyes, clutching a stuffed giraffe that had seen better days. By four, she started calling me “Daddy” on her own, like it had always been my name. She’s thirteen now. Her biological father drifts in and out like bad weather. Last night she was with him when my phone lit up: “Can you come get me?” I drove over. She was already outside with a backpack, climbed in, buckled, and asked—voice small—“Can I just call you Dad again? For real this time?” I laughed, I cried, I squeezed her...
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