21 Letters – #9 John-John
You never had to.
No bloodline tied you to our scraped knees,
our late-night cries,
our baggage packed too early in life.
And yet, you showed up
steady as breath,
gentle as sunlight slipping through the blinds
on a morning that finally felt safe.
It was for her at first -
your love for my sister so big
it spilled over the edges,
dripping into the cracks of a family
that had been thirsting
for something real.
We watched you love her.
Not with noise,
but with quiet consistency –
every dish washed,
every car door opened,
every argument handled
like it was a chance to listen,
not win.
You were the proof
that love could be soft and strong
at the same time.
And that ... that alone
would’ve been enough.
But you gave more.
You gave rides,
and talks,
and a place in your life
we didn’t expect to fit into.
When the world felt too sharp,
too unsure,
you became the calm.
You steadied the storm
that someone else left us in.
And though you never said it,
you didn't have to,
you chose us.
Every time.
Over and over.
You weren’t obligated
to teach us how to be held without fear,
how to trust that someone would stay.
You didn’t owe us
birthday candles,
or inside jokes,
or the sound of a man’s voice
who stays past the hard parts.
But you gave them anyway.
Thank you
for never making it feel like charity.
Thank you
for treating our hearts like they were worth something
when we didn’t know they were.
You may not have been there
from our first breaths,
but you helped us exhale
in a world that once
held its hand around our throats.
You were the father
we didn’t know we could have.
The one who stepped in
not because you had to,
but because you wanted to.
And that made all the difference.
With love,
one of the kids you chose