Most people talk about how much they love their moms—Mother’s Day posts, teary Instagram captions, all that. But I think that’s just because they’ve never met my dad.

He’s been everything to me since I was born. He fed me, bathed me, walked me into my first day of school wearing his favorite tailored suit because he had court that morning—but still made time to braid my hair. He always makes time. People say I’m spoiled, and maybe I am, but I never had a mom to balance it out. She left after getting a payout that barely scratched what she thought I was worth. According to Dad, she only got pregnant to trap him for money, but his lawyers ate her alive in court. She took the check and vanished.

I never missed her. I didn’t need to. I had Daddy. And Daddy’s better than any storybook mother could ever be.

I grew up in a house built on glass and gold. Shiny floors, big windows, a driveway that could fit eight cars even though we only ever used two. My dad always said, “Why not have space for more? You never know who might stay the night.” He was like that—generous, even when it didn’t make sense.

He gave me everything: piano lessons I quit after a month, horses I was too scared to ride, a closet full of designer clothes before I even knew how to pronounce the names. People assume I’m shallow because of it. Maybe I am, a little. But Daddy taught me to expect the best. He said I deserved it—because I was his.

Sometimes, when other girls would cry about their moms not understanding them, I’d just listen quietly. I couldn’t relate. I never had a mom to disappoint me. Never had anyone yell at me to clean my room or tell me I was being dramatic. Just my dad, who’d laugh when I pouted and say, “You get that from me, sweetheart.”

He never lied to me, at least not in ways that mattered. If anything, he just left things out. I know because sometimes I catch the look on his face when my mom’s name comes up—a flash of something he buries fast.

But it doesn’t change anything.

He raised me. He held my hand through everything. When I got my heart broken, he didn’t say “I told you so.” He took me to Paris for the weekend and told me I was too good for teenage boys with bad cologne and borrowed confidence. And I believed him.

Because when my world falls apart, it’s always his voice I look for. Not hers.

Never hers.