“Mommy? Why don’t I have a Daddy?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Today at school we had to draw a picture of our family, and Megan drew herself, her mommy, her sister and a Daddy. I just drew you and me.”
I scooped up this inquiring bundle, all of three years of age, and explained that his Daddy and I split up before I found out I was pregnant with him; his Daddy decided he didn’t want to be a Daddy. “But I wanted to be your Mommy with all my heart.”
“Do you want a Daddy?” I asked.
“Yes,” he lisped.
“OK. We’ll start praying for one.”
“Hey buddy, come into the pool.”
“Come catch me!”
“How about I stand here?”
“No. that’s too close.”
“No. That’s too far.” With a stomp of a little foot, “You’re so silly.”
“Well I’m only silly because you’re so cute!”
“Will you be my Daddy?”
Watching him half-walk half-skip down the aisle, bearing my ring, and my fiancé’s on a white, lace-trimmed pillow. His entire face beamed, and he squirmed throughout the service, like a puppy receiving unconditional love.
“Now are you my Daddy?” he asked as soon as we kissed.
“Yes buddy.” My new husband scooped him up into his arms and held him tight, winking at me over the blond, tousled hair of my - now our - son.
A raised hand at the end of a Sunday night service and a quick whispered conversation between a son and his Daddy, followed by a murmuring, a long hug and a wiped tear from both father and son.
When ‘the Tut” as we called him left to play with friends, I asked, “What happened?”
“Oh,” said the man who had officially adopted my son and loved him more than life itself, “I just introduced him to our Heavenly Father…”
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