Over time, she started calling me “Dad.” It wasn’t something I asked for. In fact, the day she first said it, after her middle school graduation—”Thanks, Dad”—I’ll admit, I had to turn away to wipe my eyes. Olivia squeezed my hand, and in that moment, we were a family.

I paid for her braces. I bought her first car—a safe, used Honda I’d saved for. When she got into her dream college, I drove the U-Haul, assembled her IKEA furniture, and left her with a fridge full of groceries and a lump in my throat. I was there not because I had to be, but because I loved her.

But something shifted when she turned twenty. The thank-yous became scarce, the phone calls more transactional. Then, during her senior year, Jeremy reappeared. He’d apparently turned over a new leaf, now a successful entrepreneur with a flashy car and a checkbook to match. He started posting old photos of them on social media, conveniently cropping me out of the frame.