But it wasn’t.

I kept thinking about that baby—how she gripped my pinky with her whole hand when I first held her. I visited the shelter a week later, then again. Eventually, Kiara started trusting me. She’d ask me stuff like what diapers I thought were best, or how to tell if a baby had a fever.

Then one afternoon, she pulled me aside. She’d made up her mind.

“I’m not ready to be a mom. But you… you care. She smiles when she sees you.”

I stood there, speechless. I mean, who wakes up thinking they’ll be asked to adopt a baby before dinner?

But something inside me just… clicked.

I told her I’d look into it. That night, I sat in my car outside the precinct and cried. I’d never pictured myself as a father. I didn’t even have a crib or a clue.

But I knew I couldn’t say no.

What I didn’t expect—what no one warned me about—was what came next

Turns out, nothing about adopting a child is simple—especially one without papers, a birth certificate, or even a last name on record.

Child Protective Services got involved, naturally. The shelter flagged it. They needed to determine if Kiara was of sound mind, if the child was safe, if I—an on-duty officer—was overstepping.

I was investigated. Background checks, home visits, psychological evaluations—the whole nine yards. I get it. They were just doing their job. But still, it felt like they were ripping her from me before I’d even had the chance to hold onto her.

During that time, I wasn’t allowed to see Nia. Two months. Longest stretch of my life.

I kept tabs through Kiara. She was trying. Really trying. Got into a transitional program for young mothers. Took parenting classes. Cleaned up, even got a part-time job at a thrift store. And part of me started to wonder—maybe she was ready after all.

But one morning, she called me crying. Said she was done pretending.

“I can’t be what she needs,” she whispered. “But you can. You already are.”

She’d made the hardest choice a mother could make. Not because she didn’t love her daughter, but because she did.

After that, the process picked back up again. Kiara signed over parental rights. I was cleared by the department. I had to learn how to change diapers, install a car seat, and soothe a colicky baby at 2 a.m.—all while still working shifts. My buddies at the station pitched in. One guy brought over a crib his twins had outgrown. My sergeant’s wife dropped off a whole bag of bottles, wipes, formula.

But the moment I officially became her father, when the judge signed the papers and said, “Congratulations, Mr. Duvall”—I broke down like a baby myself.

I named her Nia Grace Duvall. Same first name Kiara gave her. I wanted to honor that. Because no matter what, Kiara was part of her story