For two years, I walked my neighbor’s daughter to school.
Same time. Same route. Same tiny hand in mine like it was the only safe place left in the world.
She called me “Daddy Mike.”
I never corrected her.
Not because it was true on paper.
Because in her heart — and eventually in mine — it became true in every way that mattered.
And then one morning, everything snapped.
A man I’d never seen before was standing on her porch.
He had her by the hand.
And he looked like her so much it made my stomach drop.
