So I stayed.
I brought her apple juice in a flimsy paper cup and let it soak my scrubs. I found a battered children’s book from the waiting area and read it aloud. Again. And again. The third time, she tapped my badge and studied my name with great seriousness.
“You’re the good one,” she said.
I nearly came apart right then.
Later, a social worker pulled me aside. “No known relatives,” she said quietly. “Temporary placement. We’ll sort something out in the morning.”
Before I could stop myself, I spoke. “Can she stay with me tonight? Just until you figure it out.”
She looked at me carefully. “You’re young. You work shifts. You’re single.”
“I know,” I replied. “But I can’t let strangers take her away.”
One night turned into a week.
A week turned into months of inspections, parenting courses squeezed between shifts, and late-night internet searches on things like how to braid hair. I learned how to pack lunches. How to calm night terrors. How to survive on even less sleep than nursing school had required.
The first time she called me “Dad,” it slipped out in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store. I suddenly found frozen peas fascinating so no one would see my face.
Yes—I adopted her.
I moved to a more stable schedule. Opened a college savings account as soon as I could. Made sure she never doubted she was wanted. When she asked about her past, I told her the truth—about the accident, about how we met—but I always ended the same way.
