She said it like flipping a switch: “You’re not my dad.”
The words didn’t spark anger. They hollowed me out. Ten years of scraped knees, late-night fevers, bike lessons, school plays, and heartbreaks—and still, in her eyes, I wasn’t “Dad.” Just “Mike.”
That night, I didn’t let it slide like I usually did. I drew a line.
“If that’s how you feel,” I said as calmly as I could, “then you don’t get to treat me like a punching bag and expect me to smile through it.”
Her eyes widened. She wasn’t used to me pushing back. She rolled her eyes, slammed her bedroom door, and that was the end of the scene.
