He did everything.
My dad was 17 the night I appeared in his life.
He came home exhausted after finishing a late shift delivering pizzas and noticed his old bike leaning against the fence outside the house.
Then he saw the blanket bundled inside the basket on the front.
At first he thought someone had dumped trash there.
Then the blanket moved.
Underneath was a baby girl, about three months old, red-faced and furious at the world. There was a note tucked into the folds. She’s yours. I can’t do this.
That was all it said.
Dad later admitted he had no idea who he should call first. His mom had already passed away, and his father had left years earlier. He was living with his uncle, and they barely spoke unless it was about school or chores.
He was just a teenager with a part-time job and a bicycle with a rusty chain.
Then I started crying.
He picked me up and never set me down again.
The next morning was his graduation. Most people would’ve skipped it. Most people would have panicked, called the police, maybe handed the baby over to social services and said, “This isn’t my problem.”
My dad wrapped the blanket around me a little tighter, grabbed his cap and gown, and walked into that graduation carrying both of us.
That was when the photo was taken.
Dad gave up college to raise me.
He worked construction during the mornings and delivered pizzas at night. He slept whenever he could.
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