Two bodies on stretchers. A terrified three-year-old girl in a gurney, her parents already dead.
I wasn’t supposed to stay with her, but she clung to my arm and begged, “I’m scared. Please don’t leave me.” I stayed, gave her juice, read her a happy story again and again, because she needed to believe happy endings still existed.
When social services found no family for her, I asked to take her for the night — which turned into weeks of classes, checks, and paperwork. The first time she called me “Daddy,” I told her she could if she wanted. Six months later, I adopted her.
I built my life around her — late-night chicken nuggets, college fund starts, cheering at her games. She grew up smart, funny, stubborn, and she became my whole heart.
Then I met Marisa, a nurse who cared about us. But one night she showed security footage of someone in a hoodie stealing my safe cash and suggested Avery was the culprit. I confronted Avery, but her hoodie had been missing — and then I checked the cameras: it was Marisa taking money, holding it up with a grin.
She tried to blame Avery and say she was “not my daughter,” claiming I’d waste my life on her. I told her to leave, took back my ring she’d snatched, and locked the door.
Avery heard everything. I held her and told her no job, no woman, no amount of money was worth losing her. The next day I reported Marisa for theft and lies.
Now, I show Avery her college plan and tell her, “You’re mine — my responsibility, my daughter.” Thirteen years ago she chose me in a shattered moment. And I choose her every day.