I still remember the first time he called me daddy.
It was a couple months after the state had returned him to his birth parents. His mother had decided that she didn’t want to be a mother after all, and had left Lumpy and his sister with their father, and split. We reached out to Lumpy’s dad to let him know if he needed any help, we were there.
The dad had an overnight shift to work Friday nights. He brought Lumpy to stay the night, and as soon as the kid was inside the house, he looked down the hallway to see me in the kitchen.
His face lit up like a 300-Watt bulb, he stretched out his arms and started running toward me.
“Daddy!” he shouted.
Kids aren’t supposed to call their foster dads that, but I couldn’t help it. I smiled.
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