I used to think being a parent was all about DNA—until I met Max.
I was 29 when I met Trisha. She had a wild laugh, a backfiring Jeep, and a toddler who glared at me like a cartoon villain. His dad wasn’t around. I didn’t ask questions—I just stayed. One night, Max had the flu, and as I sat by his bed, he whispered, “You smell like pancakes.” From then on, I was “Pancake.” Not Nick. Not Dad. Just Pancake. And I wore it with pride.
Years passed. Trisha and I got married, had a daughter, and Max slowly started calling me “Dad” by accident. Then came the hard questions—about his last name, his eyes, and eventually, his “Bio Dad.” I told him the truth: I wasn’t there when he was born, but I chose to be his father. Always.
He hugged me and whispered, “I already knew.” Then he told me—he’d found his biological dad online. He hadn’t reached out, but he wanted to meet him. So, we supported him.
In Phoenix, Max looked his father in the eye and said, “I get my eyes from you. But my heart? That’s from Pancake.”
A year later, he’s thriving. He and David talk sometimes. But this morning, he left a drawing on the fridge of our little family, with the words: “Family isn’t who made you. It’s who stays.”