I never became his by blood or by paperwork, but by repetition: one packed lunch, one bedtime story, one whispered reassurance at a time. I learned to love in the in‑between places—between weekends, between households, between the history he carried and the future he was still building. There were questions I couldn’t fix, wounds I couldn’t see, and a mother I would never replace, nor try to. All I could offer was presence: the steady, ordinary miracle of staying.

As he grew, so did the spaces between us—longer legs, deeper sighs, doors closed a little harder. Yet threaded through the distance were these small, disarming offerings: a late‑night joke, a shared song, a quiet “thanks for coming” after a bad day. His “I’m glad you’re here” is no longer a child’s spell, but a clear, deliberate choice. And in that choice, I finally understand: love is not owed; it is earned, and then, if you’re lucky, returned.