And I realized I was standing in a miracle I hadn’t even known how to pray for.
Hi. My name is Maya.
I’m thirty-one. My daughter, Sita, is eight.
Her father is… no one.
He is a name on a birth certificate. A face I saw once in a doctor’s waiting room, hand pressed to his forehead, saying, “I can’t do this,” before walking out and never coming back.
He has never met her. Never sent a birthday card. Never clicked “like” on a photo I’ve posted. For eight years, I’ve been mom and dad and everything in between.
I’ve fixed bikes with YouTube tutorials. I’ve learned soccer terms I will never use again. I’ve cut off ponytails that wouldn’t untangle and carried her through 2 a.m. fever dreams.
People say things like, “She doesn’t need a dad if she has you.”
They mean well.
They are wrong.
There is a place in Sita’s heart shaped like a father. I have tried my best to fill the room around it with laughter and love and stability, but that empty space is still there.
Some holes you can’t patch with extra blankets.
You just try to keep the wind out.
The day she brought the flyer home, she practically bounced into the kitchen.