Amira — is thirteen now. I’ve been in her life since she was three. She used to call me “Daddy” without hesitation. It was natural. Easy. Like the word belonged to both of us. But life has a way of getting messy, especially when a biological parent drifts in and out when it suits them.
Last night, she was supposed to be spending the weekend with her biological father, Jamal. My wife, Zahra, dropped her off after school on Friday. Everything seemed normal. Then Saturday evening, my phone buzzed with a simple message:
grabbed my keys and drove over. When I pulled up in front of Jamal’s building, she was already standing outside waiting — backpack half-zipped, arms crossed tight against her chest, eyes fixed on my car like she’d been watching the road the whole time.
She didn’t even wait for the car to fully stop before opening the door.
