“Okay” was an understatement. He did everything. My dad was only seventeen the night I entered his life. He had returned home from an exhausting shift delivering pizzas to find his old bicycle leaning against the fence. In the front basket, tucked inside a series of blankets, was a three-month-old baby girl. He initially thought someone had left a bag of laundry or trash, but then the bundle moved. Under the folds was a note that would reorder his entire universe: She’s yours. I can’t do this. His mother had passed away, his father was long gone, and his uncle was a man of few words and less affection. He was just a kid with a rusty bike and a part-time job. Most teenagers in that position would have called the police or social services, surrendering the burden to the state. Instead, he wrapped me tighter, adjusted his graduation gown, and walked onto that football field the next morning to receive his diploma with his daughter in his arms. That was the day the picture was taken, and that was the day he chose to never put me down.
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