I brought her apple juice in a paper cup and let her spill it all over my scrubs. I found a worn children’s book in the waiting room and read it out loud. Once. Then again. By the third reading, she tapped my name badge with her finger, studying it like it mattered.
“You’re the good one,” she said solemnly.
Something inside me cracked open.
Later, a caseworker pulled me aside. No next of kin. Temporary placement. Plans would be made in the morning.
Before I had time to think, I heard myself speak.
“Can I take her home tonight? Just until you figure it out.”
The caseworker looked me over carefully. I was young. Single. Working rotating shifts.
One night became a week.
A week became months filled with home visits, parenting classes squeezed between overnight shifts, and late-night searches on how to braid hair without making a mess of it. I learned how to pack lunches. How to calm nightmares. How to function on less sleep than I ever thought possible.
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.
I didn’t date much. Life already felt full.
