She said it like a switch: “You’re not my dad.” Ten years of trying meant nothing. I stood up for myself—no more silent punching bag.
She pushed back, slammed doors, but I stayed. When school called about her slipping grades, I left a note: “No lectures. Just listening.” Slowly, she opened up—failing chemistry, hating it, feeling like a report card.
I told her she was more than that. She said, “You’re not my dad, but you’ve been more than he ever was.” Over time, small moments—help with homework, art shows, laughter—built a bond. At her wedding, she called me out for never leaving. Now, as Grandpa Mike, I hold her baby and know every bruise was worth it. Sometimes love is just showing up.
