Why I Show Up Every Morning
Keisha is eight now. She’s small for her age, but strong in ways no child should ever have to be. She still gets scared walking places alone. Still sleeps with a nightlight. Still checks the locks twice before bed.
So every morning at 7 AM, I walk her to school.
She skips beside me, holding my big tattooed hand with her tiny one, telling me about her homework, her favorite teacher, the girl who stole her pencil, and the new jump rope trick she learned.
Sometimes the other kids stare at us. A rough-looking biker with a little girl in pink unicorn shoes. But Keisha doesn’t care—she’ll swing my hand and say, “My daddy’s the toughest daddy in the world,” and suddenly I feel like I could take on anything.
Her grandmother thanks me every day. I always tell her she doesn’t have to. But she hugs me anyway.
“You saved her life,” she whispers. “Not just that night. Every day since.”
