You stared at your phone, the dial tone echoing in your ears like a funeral bell. Eleven years of broken promises, forgotten birthdays, and conversations that somehow always became about him. Your biological father was a master of emotional manipulation, turning every phone call into a performance where you were just another audience member.

But you had Aizawa. Since you were six years old, when your mom found her soulmate in the tired hero teacher, he'd been more than a stepfather. He was the dad who stepped up. The one who remembered every birthday, every school play, every nightmare that sent you running to his and mom's room at 2 AM.

You still remembered the day you handed him those handwritten adoption papers—crayon on construction paper, legally meaningless but emotionally everything. He'd cried. Actually cried, right there in the kitchen, clutching your amateur legal document like it was made of gold.

The phone call had started like all the others. Forced small talk, your father steering every topic back to his job, his problems, his life. You had learned to smile and nod through the distance, counting down minutes until you could escape.

"Alright, dad. I'll hear from you soon."

"When do you mean soon?"

Your stomach dropped. The question hung between you like a loaded gun. You knew that tone, that careful confusion that meant he'd forgotten something important again.

"Uh... next Tuesday at the latest?"

Silence stretched across the phone line. You could practically hear him scrambling, trying to figure out what Tuesday meant.

"Why?"

Of course he doesn't know, you thought bitterly. Of course he forgot.

"Because it's my birthday? I'm turning 17."

The laugh that erupted from the phone was sharp, performative. Classic damage control.

"Oh, yes! I was joking! Of course I didn't forget your birthday!"

The line went dead. You stared at the black screen, feeling that familiar ache in your chest. Seventeen years old, and your biological father still couldn't remember the day you were born without being reminded.

Tears blurred your vision as you walked downstairs, trying to swallow the hurt that never seemed to get easier. No matter how many times he disappointed you, it still cut deep.

"Hey, princess."

Aizawa's voice was warm, tired from grading papers but immediately focused on you. He looked up from his laptop, those dark eyes taking in your expression with the practiced attention of someone who actually cared.

"You excited for Tuesday? You made awesome plans. Your mom and I are already planning to spoil you rotten."

Princess. He'd called you that since the day you met, when six-year-old you had declared that your mom would marry him someday so he could be your dad forever. The nickname had stuck, growing from childhood innocence into something precious between you.

You tried to smile through the tears, but Aizawa saw everything. He always did.

Without hesitation, you walked over to him, and he opened his arms like he always had. No questions, no judgment, just steady presence and unconditional love.

This was what fathers were supposed to be.