At eight years old, I thought I found my father at a mall fundraiser. A man on stage resembled me, even sharing the same birthmark. I rushed to him, calling him “Dad,” and he didn’t deny it. But my mother quickly intervened, insisting we leave.
Months later, he reappeared as my mom’s friend, Steven. While we played baseball, I accidentally called him “Dad,” and he smiled, not correcting me. Years later, I learned Steven wasn’t my biological father, but he had chosen to be my dad because he understood what it meant to grow up without one.
Steven wasn’t the father I expected, but he was the one I needed.
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