At the mall with Mom, we stopped by a stage where a man was speaking. He had a birthmark just like mine. My heart pounded—I knew it was him. I ran to the stage, shouting, “Dad!” He looked stunned, then knelt and said, “We’ll talk in a minute.”

After his speech, he asked to speak with my mom privately. I watched them, hope burning in my chest.

That night, I asked her, “When will I see him again?” She said it was complicated.

Months later, he came over. His name was Steven. We tossed a baseball in the yard. I called him “Dad” by accident—but he smiled and didn’t correct me.

Ten years later, they sat me down. Steven wasn’t my biological father. He chose to stay because he once grew up fatherless too. He didn’t want me to feel the same.

He loved us. He married my mom. He showed up—for every scraped knee, birthday, and baseball game.

That day, I thought I found my real dad. But life gave me something better: the father who chose me.

Funny how fate works, huh?