I didn’t date much—until I met Marisa, a nurse practitioner who seemed kind, attentive, and invested in Avery. After eight months, I bought a ring. Then Marisa showed me security footage: a hooded figure stealing cash and documents from my safe. She said it was Avery. I didn’t believe it. When Avery told me her gray hoodie had gone missing, I checked older footage. Minutes before the theft, the camera caught Marisa holding that hoodie. Then I saw her enter my room, open the safe, and smile.

When confronted, Marisa snapped, “She’s not your blood.” “Get out,” I said. Avery heard everything. I held her, apologized, and promised I would never doubt her again. Yesterday, I showed Avery her college fund and said, “You’re my daughter.” Thirteen years ago, she decided I was “the good one.” I still am. Family isn’t blood. It’s choosing each other—every single day.