Thirteen years ago, I was a 26-year-old ER nurse when a car crash brought in a family. The parents didn’t survive, but their 3-year-old daughter, Avery, was alive—terrified and looking for safety.
She clung to me, begging me not to leave. I stayed, reading her favorite book and comforting her. The next day, social services told me Avery had no family. I asked if I could take her, just until they figured things out. They warned me I was too young and worked too many shifts, but I couldn’t let her go to strangers.
One night turned into weeks of paperwork, classes, and becoming a parent. When Avery called me “Dad” for the first time, I knew I had to adopt her.
Years passed, and Avery became my whole world. By 16, she had my sarcasm and her mother’s eyes. I met Marisa, and after eight months, I even bought a ring. But one night, Marisa showed me security footage of someone—who looked like Avery—stealing money from my safe.
I confronted Avery, who admitted her hoodie was missing but denied stealing. Then I found out it was Marisa in the footage, framing Avery. She admitted she was trying to “save me” from Avery leaving, but I knew better.
I kicked Marisa out, and Avery and I worked through it together. I filed a police report and reassured Avery she was my responsibility and my daughter, no matter what.
Avery chose me that night in the ER, and I choose her every day. Family isn’t about blood—it’s about showing up and choosing each other, even when it’s hard.