I spent years afraid of overstepping, of being too much or not enough, of hovering in that invisible space between “parent” and “guest.” Yet every ordinary moment with him—muddy shoes by the door, mismatched lunches, late-night talks about things that scared him—stitched us together in ways no shared DNA ever could. His questions about loyalty and love once made my chest ache, but they also gave us language for something fragile and real: that loving me would never erase her, and loving her would never push me away.

Now, when he leans into my side during a movie, or mutters “I’m glad you’re here” like it’s no big deal, I understand what he’s really saying. He isn’t replacing anyone. He is expanding. And in that quiet, brave expansion, he gave me the greatest gift—proof that family can be chosen, and that I was chosen, too.