Dad

I was twenty-three when I met my daughters. They were five and seven years old. It was love at first sight for me, not quite sure what they thought. It took a few years but I became their dad, but never had them call me that, Michael did just fine. One day, one of Brittany’s friends asked her why she called me Michael and not dad. She thought for a moment, those dark brown eyes under her bangs deep in thought, then her face brightened, and she said, rather casually for something that has brought me to tears for nearly thirty years, “because Dad and Michael mean the same thing.”

I asked Danielle to read my latest book before I sent it to the publisher. One of my favorite parts has to do with my pleasure at becoming first a friend, then a father to the girls. She called me the other day, and told me she knew what my next book should be about.

“You have to write a book about how to be a good step-parent.”

I had always wondered, and thought how I could have done better, and regretted the mistakes I made, and continue to make.

But when one of your daughters tells you you should write a book about being a good step-parent, well, it just doesn’t get much better than that. Dad, Michael – it doesn’t matter what they call me, because they are mine, heart and soul.