Richard repaired roofs before dawn, worked factory shifts, and washed dishes three evenings a week. He learned to sleep in fragments.
The girls learned sacrifice too early.
When the washing machine died, Rose started a jar labeled NEW MACHINE. Each sister contributed coins. Richard found the jar and cried in the garage where no one could see.
He did not want poverty to become their identity.
But he also refused to hide it through debt.
“We do not have money for that,” he told them when necessary.
He never said, “You should be grateful I adopted you.”
That sentence lived in many foster homes and adoptive families. Richard had heard adults use rescue as permanent authority.
He would not.
At fourteen, Lily shouted during an argument, “We didn’t ask you to take us!”
Richard felt the words like a blow.
He wanted to tell her what he sold.
How many nights he worked.
How many people he fought to keep them together.
Instead, he answered, “That’s true.”
Lily stopped.
“You didn’t ask,” he continued. “I chose. You do not owe me for my choice.”
She began crying.
“So you regret it?”
“Never.”
“Then why are you angry?”
“Because I’m your father and you broke curfew.”
The argument returned to the correct subject.
That became one of Richard’s greatest strengths.
He refused to turn adoption into a weapon during ordinary conflict.
But he was not a perfect father.
