“Why’s your dad so small?”

I knew the questions would come.
Kids don’t have filters—but watching Marcus lower his eyes because of me still broke my heart 💔.

He was only six when he came into my home 🏠, already tired in a way no child should be. Too many moves. Too many goodbyes. Too many bags packed and unpacked.
That first night, I knelt beside him and made a promise I intended to keep: You’ll never have to repack your bag again 🎒🤍.

When the comments started at school, I showed up.
Every time.
Field trips 📚. Parent days. Meetings. Sitting in tiny chairs, standing in hallways, answering quiet questions with steady pride 🤝. Not to prove anything to the world—but to prove everything to him. That I wasn’t leaving. That I was his.

At home, in the safety of our living room, he once asked me in a small voice if families like ours “count.”
I told him the truth.

We count even more—because we chose each other ❤️✨.
Because love isn’t measured by height, or looks, or biology.
It’s measured by who stays.
By who shows up.
By who keeps their promises.

Now Marcus is taller than me 📏—and he always introduces me first 🤍.
Not out of obligation.
Out of pride.

And every time he does, I’m reminded:
This family was built on choice, on commitment, and on a love that never needed permission to be real.