I agreed to watch my cousin’s six-year-old for an hour. Sixty minutes, tops. By minute fifty-nine my place looked like a raccoon break-in—apple juice on my laptop, glue stick hieroglyphics on the coffee table, a meltdown over the “wrong” yogurt (apparently blue tastes different from purple). When the hour passed and she still hadn’t shown, I called.
“Oh! I’m actually staying out tonight,” she said, breezy as a beach ad. “I figured you didn’t mind.”
I dressed the kid, carried her out like a wriggling grocery bag, and buckled her into the car seat. I texted: “Dropping her off.” Forty minutes later the building manager told me my cousin was in Miami with a guy named Micah. Her car spot was empty. Of course it was.
So there I sat, hands clamped on the wheel, steam coming off my scalp. The kid—Farrah—was in the back humming about a purple cow marrying a sandwich.
“Do you like pizza?” I asked, because desperation.
“Yes,” she said. “But not the brown kind. Or the triangle kind. Only the fluffy kind.”
We found a place with a booth and crayons. I braced for impact.
And she… behaved. She used a napkin. Said “thank you.” Offered me a breadstick like we were at the UN. The server said, “She yours?” and before I could protest, Farrah beamed.
“He’s my best friend,” she announced, then dunked her slice in her water and grinned tomato-teeth.
I laughed—an actual, honest laugh. She laughed too, loud and unbothered. People turned. I didn’t care.
It didn’t last. She tried to “tip” the waiter by sliding a crayon into his back pocket and nearly garroted herself with a balloon scarf. But there was a spark under the chaos. That night I tucked her on the couch, cartoons low, and she drew a portrait of the two of us. “You have hero hair,” she said. I let the kid win that one.
Morning text from my cousin: “Heeey can you keep her til tonight? Missed our flight 🥴”
No apology. No thanks. Just entitlement with an emoji.
I called my aunt. Turns out this wasn’t a one-off. My cousin had been dropping Farrah on anyone with a pulse—neighbors, friends, even an old teacher—then disappearing for whole weekends.
“She says she needs freedom,” my aunt sighed. “But she has a child, not a gym bag.”
I looked at Farrah. She was brushing her doll’s hair with a fork, singing to it softly. She had no idea she was being passed around like leftovers.
We got pancakes. We hit the park. Built sand castles. Fed ducks. Got chased by an angry squirrel. She called me her “adventure uncle,” which isn’t accurate—technically second cousins—but felt right.
By noon, another text: “We’re just gonna stay thru Sunday! Can u handle her til then? She LOVES u! 😘”
That was it. I didn’t respond. I called my aunt back and asked what it would take to get temporary guardianship. Not trying to be a hero—just trying to stop the spin.
“You’d really do that?” she whispered.
Two weeks later I had papers. Nothing permanent, just enough to keep Farrah safe and make decisions. I expected fireworks from my cousin. Got one letter: “k.” That’s when I realized she didn’t want to fight. She wanted out.
Family chats exploded. My mom cried. My cousin blocked me. Farrah bloomed.
She slept through the night. Ate better. Stopped flinching when someone raised their voice. I put her in a half-day art class; the teacher pulled me aside.
“She’s bright. And funny. Has she had any trauma?”
I nodded. Words jammed.
That night I asked if she missed her mom.
“Not when I’m with you,” she said.
It hit like a truck.
We found a rhythm: cereal and SpongeBob, park or quiet time, shoe-tying boot camp. She made a friend—Rafi, dinosaur expert. Six months in, certified mail: my cousin was relinquishing custody. No warning, no conversation. She’d moved to Atlanta with Micah and didn’t want to “hold Farrah back.”
Relief should’ve come. Instead, grief did. I’d never planned to be anyone’s dad. But I couldn’t picture my life without her knock-knock jokes and gap-toothed grin.
Three more months of court, inspections, interviews. The judge granted full custody. Outside the courthouse, Farrah squeezed my hand.
“Can we get ice cream to celebrate?”
“Only if you promise not to pour it on your doll again.”
She giggled. We got ice cream. She poured it on her doll. I let it slide.
It’s been two years. Farrah’s in second grade, obsessed with space and rollerblading. She wants to be “a singer, an astronaut, and a sandwich-maker.” I tell her she’s allowed to be all three. We talk about her mom sometimes—honestly, kindly. People grow at different speeds. Sometimes love is letting go.
Once she asked if I was sad I “got stuck” with her.
“I wasn’t stuck,” I said. “I was chosen.” Maybe not by her mother. But by the moment that dropped her into my life and didn’t give me time to run.
I lost a cousin. I gained a reason to wake up with purpose. The wild, glue-stick tornado who colored on my fridge is the best thing that ever happened to me.
If you know someone who stepped up when it wasn’t easy, tell them. Or send them pizza—the fluffy kind.