My dad raised me alone after my birth mother abandoned me as a baby.
For 18 years, I believed he was my real father.
And honestly? Nobody could’ve convinced me otherwise.
He was the one who stayed up all night when I was sick.
The one who packed my school lunches.
The one who learned how to braid hair from YouTube videos after I came home crying because my ponytail looked “weird” compared to the other girls’.
He worked construction during the day and delivered pizzas at night just to keep food on the table. Some nights he barely slept at all.
But somehow… he still made it to every school play, every birthday, every soccer game, every bad day, every heartbreak.
He never complained.
Not once.
Growing up, there was one photo in our house that meant more than anything else.
