In the fifteen years he raised me, he never treated me like an obligation—I was simply his kid. He showed up, always, quietly and without needing credit.
He taught me to ride a bike, helped me through my first real failure in math, and stood beaming at my graduation like it was his own victory.
He never missed a meeting or a birthday, and never once mentioned we weren’t related by blood.
When he died, it felt like the ground disappeared beneath me. At the funeral, people spoke of his career and achievements—true, but incomplete, missing who he really was.