The photo above our couch has been there for as long as I can remember.
The frame is chipped in one corner because when I was eight I kicked a foam soccer ball across the living room and knocked it down. Dad picked it up, looked at the cracked glass for a second, then shrugged.
“Well,” he said, “I survived that day. The picture can survive this too.”
That photo tells the entire story of my life.
A skinny seventeen-year-old boy stands on a football field in a slightly crooked graduation cap. His shoulders are stiff, his eyes wide with panic.
In his arms is a tiny baby wrapped in a blanket.
Me.
For years I loved teasing him about that picture.
“You look like you’re about to drop me,” I once said while pointing at it.
“I was not going to drop you,” he replied immediately.
“Then why do you look so terrified?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and laughed quietly.
“Because I thought if you sneezed, you might break.”
That awkward teenager in the photo is the man who raised me.
He was seventeen the night I appeared in his life.
According to the story he has told me a hundred times, he was riding home after a late pizza delivery shift. When he reached the fence outside his small house, he noticed something strange sitting in the basket of his old bike.
A blanket.
At first he assumed someone had dumped trash there.
Then the blanket moved.
Inside it was a furious three-month-old baby girl with tiny clenched fists and a face red from crying.
There was a note tucked beside me.
Just two short sentences.
“She’s yours. I can’t do this.”
