I used to think parenthood was all about biology—until I met Max, Trisha’s toddler son, who hated my guts and called me “Pancake” after a fever dream moment. I wasn’t his dad by blood, but as the years passed, we built a life—marriage, a new baby, a dog named Murphy, and Max calling me “Dad” more and more.

One day, Max asked if he could write “Dad Pancake” and “Bio Dad” on a school project. My heart stopped. He had questions—and deserved honest answers.

I told him the truth: I wasn’t there when he was born, but I chose to be his dad, every single day.

He hugged me and whispered, “I already knew.”

Then he told me he’d found his biological father—David Ellison in Phoenix. We supported Max’s decision to meet him. Their meeting was polite, distant. David said Max looked just like him. Max replied, “I get my eyes from you. But my heart? That’s from Pancake.”

It’s been a year. They write sometimes, but Max is whole now. On our fridge is a drawing of our family, and the words:
“Family isn’t who made you. It’s who stays.”

I still go by Pancake.

And I wear that name like a crown.