By morning, social services arrived. They used careful words—temporary placement, no known relatives, foster care. A caseworker knelt in front of Avery and asked if she knew any family members.
She shook her head. She knew her stuffed rabbit’s name. She knew her curtains were pink with butterflies. That was all.
What she did know was that she didn’t want me to leave.
When the caseworker told me Avery would be placed with a foster family, the words came out before I could stop them.
“Can I take her? Just for tonight.”
She stared at me. I was single. New. Overworked. Completely unqualified on paper.
“This isn’t temporary babysitting,” she warned.
“I know,” I said. And I did.
That one night became a week. A week turned into months. Then a year filled with home visits, background checks, parenting classes squeezed between shifts. I learned how to pack lunches, install car seats, and argue with insurance companies about pediatric therapy.
The first time she called me “Dad,” we were standing in a grocery store aisle.
“Dad, can we get the dinosaur cereal?”
She froze, waiting for correction.
“You can call me that if you want,” I said.
Her face crumpled with relief.
Six months later, the adoption was official. But she’d been my daughter long before any paperwork said so.
I rearranged my entire life. I changed shifts. I showed up to every school event. I learned how to make dinner at midnight and always keep Mr. Hopps—the stuffed rabbit—within reach.
She grew into a smart, stubborn, kind kid who pretended she hated when I cheered but always looked for me in the crowd.
By sixteen, she had my dry sense of humor and her biological mother’s eyes. She’d climb into the car after school and sigh dramatically.
“Dad, don’t freak out. I got a B+.”
Dating barely crossed my mind. When you’ve watched someone lose everything in one night, you protect your home carefully.
Then I met Marisa.
She was a nurse practitioner—confident, composed, understanding of long shifts and emotional baggage. She remembered Avery’s favorite drinks. She didn’t push. Slowly, I let myself believe I could be a father and have a partner.
After eight months, I bought a ring.
Then everything shattered.
One evening, Marisa showed me footage from the hallway camera she’d insisted on installing. It showed someone in a gray hoodie entering my bedroom and opening my safe—where I kept emergency cash and Avery’s documents.
“She’s been acting strange,” Marisa said gently. “I didn’t want to believe it either.”
My heart dropped.
I confronted Avery. She was shocked, hurt, angry.
“My gray hoodie is missing,” she said. “I thought I lost it.”
Something felt wrong.
I checked earlier footage.
There was Marisa—holding Avery’s hoodie. Entering my room. Opening the safe. Taking cash. Looking directly into the camera.
She had staged everything.
When I confronted her, the truth spilled out.
“She’s not really your daughter,” Marisa snapped. “You’ve given her everything. One day she’ll leave and you’ll be alone.”
“Get out,” I said.
She accused me of choosing Avery over her.
“There’s no choice,” I replied. “She’s my child.”
After Marisa left, Avery stood shaking at the top of the stairs.
“I didn’t do it,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said, pulling her close. “And I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”
The next day, I filed a police report and cut Marisa out of our lives completely.
That night, I showed Avery her college fund statements.
“This is yours,” I said. “Not because you’re perfect. Because you’re you.”
She smiled through tears. “You’re my choice too.”
Thirteen years ago, a terrified little girl grabbed my arm and refused to let go.
I’ve been holding on ever since.
Family isn’t blood. It’s who you choose—again and again—especially when it’s hard.
And I will always choose her.
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