At the reception, she insisted on giving a speech with her mouth full of cupcake. She called him her “almost-daddy.” Everyone laughed. Daniel’s eyes welled up.
He legally adopted her on her fifth birthday. We threw a backyard celebration with paper lanterns and a homemade cake. After Ellie opened her gifts, she climbed into Daniel’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Can I call you Daddy now? For real?” she whispered. “Only if I can call you my daughter forever,” he said.
I remember watching them, convinced that love would fix everything. That the wounds left by absence and divorce would finally start to close. That the word step would never need to live between them.
But love, as I’ve learned, doesn’t always reach every corner. Especially not the hidden ones. The ones where judgment wears perfume and smiles politely at the dinner table.
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