I had just grabbed my keys from the counter when I called out, “Maya, don’t forget your jacket.” My four-year-old daughter was probably rummaging through her closet, hunting for her sparkly sneakers. I didn’t think much of it at first, just another morning in our little routine.
“I don’t need it, Daddy!” she yelled back, her tiny voice muffled from behind the closet door.
I shook my head with a smile. Maya was already fiercely independent, even at four. Being her father wasn’t easy—raising her alone had never been simple. Her mother, Emily, had left us before Maya’s first birthday. She decided motherhood wasn’t for her, and since then, it had been just the two of us, navigating life together.
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