I Chose Them. And They Chose Me Back.
I wasn’t supposed to be a father.
At 41, life was just gray concrete, steel-toe boots, 4 a.m. alarms, and lonely dinners under flickering kitchen light.
Then the phone rang.

Two small shadows stepped through my door:
Elijah, 5 — clutching one torn backpack like a shield.
Grace, 8 — eyes already trained not to hope too hard.
That night I signed papers with shaking hands.
My quiet world exploded into chaos, laughter, tears, burnt toast, late-night fevers, and endless school forms.
I was exhausted. Broke. Terrified.
But walking away?
Never once crossed my mind.
On the darkest nights I whispered broken prayers into the dark:
“God… just carry me through tomorrow. Please.”

He always did.
Today my son wears a uniform — calm, steady, protecting others.
My daughter stands beside him in the same noble calling — kind, trusted, unbreakable.
We share no blood.
But we share something fiercer:
CHOICE.
FAITH.
LOVE that showed up every damn day… and never left.
God is good.
Always has been.
Always will be.