The little girl who calls me “Daddy Mike” isn’t my daughter, but she is mine in every way that matters. I’m the guy who shows up every morning, parks my bike two homes down, and walks her to school at 7 a.m. sharp. She lives with her grandma, and although she’s eight years old, she still runs to me like I’m her whole world.
“Daddy Mike!” she yells as she jumps into my arms.
Her grandmother constantly watches from the doorway with tears in her eyes. She knows what’s true. Keisha knows it too. But love doesn’t always follow biology, and occasionally a youngster makes up her own meaning of “dad.”
spotted her crying behind a store three years ago. I didn’t know her name, her tale, or the storm she had been through. All I knew was that she needed help. I stayed with her until help came, gave her my jacket, and held her hand when she was shaking. I believed that would be the end of it.
But Keisha didn’t want to let go.
I went to see them the next day. And then the next. I quickly became the one person she could always count on. I would go to her grandmother’s house, go to school functions, learn how to braid her hair from online tutorials, and become someone she could trust again.
At a school event, she called me “daddy” for the first time. I stopped. I didn’t know what to say. But her grandmother softly said to me, “Let her have that if it makes her feel better.”
So
As time went on, our mornings became a ritual of little talks, nervous queries, and moments that made us feel like family. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?” she said every day.
told them every day, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Last year, after her grandma had a stroke, social workers started talking about putting her in foster care. Without hesitation, I immediately sought legal advice. It was challenging to convince people to believe that a middle-aged biker who lived alone could be the ideal person to parent a tiny girl. But the ones who knew her best—her therapist, her grandma, and her teachers—stood up for us.
After months of background checks, interviews, classes, and inspections, the court made it official: I was now her father.
The day the judge made the decision, Keisha ran up to me and asked, “You’re my real daddy now?” I told her the truth:
“I’ve been your dad since you chose me.”
She still has awful days. She still asks hard questions. And no, I don’t always know the right answer. But what I can do—what I’ve done every day for years—is show up.
Keisha wrote an essay for school called “My Hero,” which her teacher sent me. She inscribed in meticulous handwriting the manner in which I chose to love her during a time of fear and solitude. I cook pancakes, walk her to school, and consistently show up.
I cried while sitting in my pickup. It wasn’t because I felt like a hero, but rather because she has endured so much and continues to love unconditionally.
Sometimes people look. People make judgments. It doesn’t matter.
The small girl who trusts me is what is important.
The person who clutches my hand every morning.
The person who found family in an unexpected way.
Keisha isn’t related to me by blood, but I chose her, promised her, and love her.
And I will always be there for her, today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life.
What do you think it means to be a real parent?
Please share your ideas or experiences; your words could benefit someone else who is reading this.