"Blood matters, and you'll never be her child because of that."
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"She's my mom because she chose me. My real mom left when I was little. I don't really remember her, but Julia packs my lunches. She stays with me when I'm scared. She'll never leave me."
My father's jaw clenched.
"That doesn't make her your mother."
Caleb's next words made my jaw drop.
"She's my mom because she chose me."
"You're her dad, right?"
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My father nodded stiffly.
"Of course I am."
"So you're supposed to choose her, too, but you didn't. Not for a long time. I don't understand how someone who stopped choosing their own kid gets to decide who is a real parent."
My father's mouth opened, ready with another argument, another justification, but nothing came out.
"You're her dad, right?"
His shoulders sagged, like the fight had drained out of him all at once.
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"I didn't think of it that way," my father said finally, his voice breaking despite himself.
The anger had evaporated, leaving something raw and exposed behind.
I stepped forward, then, and placed my hand on Caleb's shoulder and told my father something I should've said four years ago.
"I didn't think of it that way."
"You don't get to judge my motherhood, Dad. We might not be a conventional family, but we're a family nonetheless."
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My father looked at me. I could hardly believe what I was seeing — he was crying!
"But if you want to know your grandson someday," I continued, keeping my voice steady, "you'll have to learn what choosing someone actually means."
"You don't get to judge my motherhood, Dad."
I didn't wait for his reply. I turned the cart around. Caleb took the handle, like always.
As we walked away, I felt like someone who had finally stopped asking to be understood. Someone who had finally started deciding what she would accept.
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Behind us, I heard my father call my name.
Soft. Uncertain.
I heard my father call my name.
I kept walking. Caleb looked up at me.
"Are you okay?"
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