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“I can’t do this anymore. Take her.”
No name. No explanation. Just those seven words.
When he turned back, she was fast asleep, curled up in the blanket like a kitten, the mug untouched beside her. Her face was blotchy from crying, but calm now.
He didn’t sleep that night.
He filed the report early that morning, called social services, sent the note, and told them everything. But days passed, then weeks. No one came forward.
At the start, Daniel told himself it was temporary. Just until a foster home was arranged. But then came the preschool paperwork, the pediatric appointments, the first time she called him “Officer Dad.”
A year later, he signed the adoption papers and made it official. Lily became his daughter in name, in law, and in love.
He remembered fumbling through YouTube videos on how to braid a little girl’s hair before school.
“You need to learn,” she’d say with a stubborn pout. “All the other dads know.”
Eventually, “Officer Dad” became just “Dad.”
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