The Light That Chose Me

He is not my father by blood,

but he is the light

burning through every darkness I have known.

Rough hands stained by work,

boots by the back door,

shirt worn thin at the collar—

his light steady as the dawn—

no matter how long the night,

I knew where to look.

Always to him.

When the world stormed against me,

when her anger fell with words, fists,

and hate filled the house,

I ran—

but his glow found me.

He became the beam in the night,

the engine idling soft outside a friend’s door,

the arms gathering me home,

safe in the circle of his light.

He walked me down the aisle,

steadier than hope,

his love a promise that outlasted any vow.

Even though that marriage didn’t last,

he never left.

His promise was not for a moment,

but for a lifetime.

When I was young and expecting—

uncertain, afraid—

he took me to appointments,

sat beside me at parenting classes,

never flinched at the weight of new beginnings.

And when the time came,

he ran down hospital halls

just to reach me, breathless,

because I didn’t want to do it

without the only dad I’d ever needed.

Now, in every little thing—

a chicken coop fixed,

a grandchild’s scraped knee soothed—

his light spreads, quiet and golden,

never asking for thanks,

never fading.

A lantern of love carried forward

from one generation to the next.

And every time I hear his voice—

the same warm “hello”

it’s always been—

it carries the glow of a thousand mornings,

a promise that his light will always wait for me,

for my siblings, for my children—

lighting each path

with the love he chose to give,

no matter how dark.

He is not the flame’s keeper—

he is the lantern itself.

A quiet fire,

a shelter in the storm,

the guide I follow home.