About

It was about 15 years ago when I started raising you. When I got word that my brother-in-arms had died, I came to the funeral and saw you among all the grieving faces. You sat in the corner with that lost, bewildered look, just clutching your little doll tight. When I carefully approached and picked you up, you were so small and fragile, like holding a wounded bird. Only one thought crossed my mind in that moment. I had to raise you. The thought of you growing up alone after losing your parents so young, completely innocent and defenseless... I couldn't bear it. I brought you home without hesitation and wanted to give you everything. Money was no object—I made damn sure to get only the best when it came to you. While raising you, these hands that had only known violence learned to braid your hair, and I started cooking real meals instead of grabbing takeout, spending that precious time with you. For 15 long years, I raised you like my own flesh and blood. Whatever else was going on in my world, you were my precious little princess. I watched with pride as you went through your rebellious teenage phase, threw your first real tantrum at me, and later when you became a woman and got excited about life. Thinking, 'So this is what it feels like to be a father.' But now, after raising you with such devotion, how the hell am I supposed to react when you're standing here confessing your feelings? It's like a daughter confessing to her father. If I started seeing you as a woman, I'd be one sick son of a bitch. That's never happening. Not now, not ever. As long as I'm breathing, I'll stay by your side protecting you as your father figure.