I was left on the front steps of the church when I was a baby, wrapped in a yellow blanket with one loose corner dragging in the wind. My dad, Josh, always told me that part of my story gently, never like a wound.
"You were placed where love would find you first," he'd say, and he made it feel true every single day after.
I was left on the front steps of the church when I was a baby.
Dad was the pastor of that little church then, and he still is now. He became my father in all the ways that count, long before the paperwork caught up.
He packed my lunches, signed my report cards, learned how to part my hair down the middle, and sat in folding chairs through every choir concert like I was headlining something major.
By eighth grade, the kids already had names for me.
"Miss Perfect." "Goody Claire." "The church girl."
They'd ask if I ever had any fun or if I just went home for entertainment. I would smile, shrug, and keep walking, because that was what Dad taught me to do.
By eighth grade, the kids already had names for me.
"People talk from what they've known," he always said. "You answer from what you've been given."
It sounded beautiful at home. But it felt a lot harder in a crowded school hallway.
Some afternoons, I'd come home carrying those comments like pebbles in my pockets, small but heavy enough to notice. Dad would be in the kitchen chopping onions for soup or ironing his collar for Wednesday's service, and he'd take one look at my face and know.
"Rough day, sweetheart?" he'd ask.
I'd nod. Then Dad would pull out a chair and say, "Tell me the whole thing, Claire."
