He was someone else’s dad. He wasn’t mine. Sort of. He was someone they loved, like no one else could. Sort of. I was there in the midst of it all. His kindness included me. His hugs made me feel I belonged. His smile brightened my heart.

When he found out his son and I were getting married, he took my hand, smiled at me and said, “My family just keeps getting bigger.” He was my dad. Sort of. Not by birth, but by love.

I sat in the corner by myself, while his children grieved his loss. No one could love him like they did. Sort of. I stayed silent, afraid to intrude, my heart breaking deeply. I was his daughter. Sort of. I cared for him, I fed him. I loved him. He was my dad too. Sort of. Not by birth, but by love.

My tears flowed, while I sat silent. Afraid to interrupt their grief, afraid to offend them with mine. I miss him. He was my dad. Sort of. Not by birth, but by love.