I became close to my now-wife right away, even though she had a three-year-old daughter when we first met. I immediately assumed the role of a father figure, loving and caring for her without reservation and treating her as if she were my own. Over time, the relationship only became stronger, and by the time she was four, she began calling me “Daddy” all on her own. I will always remember that simple yet profoundly meaningful gesture.
Despite his title, it’s obvious that he hasn’t always supported her as a father should. Last night, she was visiting her biological father, and I got a text from her out of the blue asking if I could come pick her up. The tone of the message was unsettling, and I knew right away something wasn’t right. Her biological father, on the other hand, has always been inconsistent; sometimes he would be around, and other times he would disappear for weeks or even months without saying anything.
She was seated on the couch, holding her arm when I got at his house, which I had hurried to. She was obviously in discomfort, and it was obviously bloated. She informed me she had fallen off her skateboard, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that this wasn’t a simple mishap.
I questioned her biological father why he hadn’t given my wife a call. He appeared to be dismissive, dismissing it as if it were a little issue and saying she was being “dramatic.” I wasn’t prepared for how chilly his remark struck me. This guy should have been worried about his daughter, but he was more focused on downplaying the circumstances.
When I looked at my stepdaughter, who was still holding her arm and was obviously distressed and in agony, I realized that I was the one who had always supported her, regardless of biology. With beseeching eyes, she begged me to take her home, and I immediately decided to do so. “This is why I’m her real dad, not you,” I added, looking her biological father in the eye. I had been suppressing that comment for a long time, but I had to utter it now.
We spent hours at the emergency department when I took my stepdaughter. Her arm was found to be broken following a battery of X-rays and examinations. I comforted her and did everything in my power to ensure that she felt safe and taken care of during the whole ordeal. In a sense, it didn’t matter that we didn’t leave the hospital until nearly one in the morning. The fact that she was cared for and that she came to me for support was all that mattered.
My duty as her father, not just in name but in deed, was crystal clear to me in that moment. Furthermore, regardless of what transpires with her real father,