That was the first thing she said to me when she finally took her eyes off my wife and acknowledged my presence. A social worker had unbuckled her from the car seat and spoken to her in soothing tones.
The little girl was only three years old and clung like a koala bear as she cleared the back seat. Fortunately, my wife always knows what to say.
“Hey there, sweet child,” she cooed. “Here, come over here to me and let me see how big you are. Oh my goodness, look at those pretty eyes. You are such a strong girl; I can already tell.”
The little girl slowly released her grip on the social worker and entered my wife’s embrace. She buried her eyes and clung to a stuffed animal with a tight grip. I patted her back gently, like an idiot. My wife shot me a glance that said, “Say something.”
“I’m Steve.”
My wife rolled her eyes. Now the glance said, “Don’t be a moron.”
I tried again. “I’m glad you’re with us.” Again, a dumb thing to say.
My wife turned her back to me, shaking her head as she finished taking the tiny backpack from the social worker. I stood there in my idiocy and debated what to do next.
The little girl opened her eyes over my wife’s shoulder and looked right at me. I smiled. She pointed and said, “I do not like you.”
An opening. I could work with that. “That’s okay. I work in a school, so a lot of people don’t like me. At least, at first. But I’ll keep trying if you give me the chance.”
She buried her eyes again. We were supposed to provide care for this little girl for a couple of days while things got sorted out. The days turned into weeks.
She loved my wife at the first instant, giving her a cute nickname right off the bat: Day-Day.
Me? She called me Mr. Steve.
When my wife left for a weekend soccer tournament with one of our other children, the little girl and I had to come to terms with our relationship. I played with her. I danced with her. I built a doll house and took her out for pizza, just the two of us.
She cried every night for her mother and for my wife. Then, one morning, I found her sitting in front of the television and a video was playing, one that she asked to rewind again and again. It was a video of a young father tickling his daughter. She was mesmerized and it made her happy.
Her own father had died unexpectedly in the home. The police and social workers had arrived a few days later.
“My daddy played with me on the floor,” she finally said.
I was taken aback by this sudden conversation, this tiny window into who she was. “He did? What did y’all play?”
“He tickled me. He let me ride on his back. We played on the floor all the time.”
This was a lot of information from a three-year-old.
So, I got down on the floor and sat by her. We watched that video over and over again and she smiled every time. The connection to her father was evident on the screen and on her face.
I understood that she loved her father, and she loved him because she knew without question that he loved her. Her father had failed her in many ways and created the path by which she would ultimately have to leave the home. But I came to understand that he did provide her with the greatest gift that any parent could bestow on a child: He made sure she knew that she mattered.
Every interaction I had with that little girl was built upon the firm foundation of that first brick, that first realization that she was important enough for an adult to spend time with her.
That was six years ago. Now, that little girl is our daughter. Now, before she goes to bed, she tells me that she loves me.
This past Father’s Day, I read a couple of cards from my kids and I unwrapped a gift from my wife. I reveled in the day set aside to honor good dads. And, I whispered a quiet prayer of thanks for my child’s first father, the one that made sure that I’d have a shot at becoming a better man.
The one that made sure my daughter mattered.
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Smart Justice is a magazine, podcast, and continuing news coverage from the nonprofit Restore Hope and covers the pursuit of better outcomes on justice system-related issues, such as child welfare, incarceration, and juvenile justice. Our coverage is solutions-oriented, focusing on the innovative ways in which communities are solving issues and the lessons that have been learned as a result of successes and challenges.
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