The whole room went silent. I started to correct her, to explain I wasn’t really her father. But Mrs. Washington, who was watching from the doorway, shook her head at me. Later she pulled me aside.

« Mr. Mike, that baby has lost everything. Her mama. Her daddy. Her home. Her whole world got destroyed in one night. If calling you daddy helps her heal, please don’t take that away from her. »

So I became Daddy Mike. Not legally. Not officially. Just in the heart of one little girl who needed someone to show up for her.

Every morning I walk her to school because she’s terrified of walking alone. Afraid someone will hurt her like her father hurt her mother. I hold her hand and she tells me about her dreams. Usually nightmares. Sometimes good dreams where her mother is still alive.

« Daddy Mike, do you think my real daddy thinks about me? » she asked me this morning.

I never know how to answer that question. Her father is a monster who murdered her mother in front of her. But she’s eight. She still loves him despite what he did. That’s the tragedy of being a child—you love the people who hurt you most.

« I think he probably does, baby girl, » I said carefully. « But what matters is that you have people who love you now. Your grandma. Your teachers. Me. »

« You won’t leave me, will you? » She asks me this every day. Every single day for three years.

« Never, sweetheart. I’ll be here every morning until you don’t need me anymore. »