By Dr. Stacey Patton
There’s a voice in my head that calls me “kid.” Always has. It’s gruff, warm, and steady. It’s the kind of voice that wraps around your name and makes it feel heavier, more rooted. That voice belongs to Joey, one of my Village Fathers. Not by blood. Not by law. But by something deeper. Something chosen.
We met when I was a teenager who was still raw from foster care, still shaky from surviving things I hadn’t yet named, still unsure if I belonged anywhere. I was at boarding school, and his daughter, Moey, brought me home for a weekend. I didn’t know what I was walking into. I had never been around a family like theirs before. Italian warmth. Garlic bread in the air. Loud laughter that didn’t carry threat. A man’s booming voice that filled a room but didn’t make me flinch.
I was nervous. Joey was a big white man with broad shoulders and a face that could scare off trouble. The kind of man I had been taught to fear. The kind of man who, statistically, wasn’t supposed to love a Black foster girl like me. But he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He walked up to me like I’d always been his. Hugged me. Took my bag. Kissed me on the forehead. And in that moment, something in me broke open.
That was the beginning of a relationship that would anchor me for decades.
Joey became a constant. Every visit: same kiss in the driveway. Same jokes at the dinner table. Same warmth. We fished. We laughed through spilled movie theater candy. He cursed at the table and made Moey roll her eyes. He was real. Unfiltered. Protective in a way I’d never experienced, fierce but tender. A body built for work and a heart big enough to hold someone else’s daughter.
There were no adoption papers. No official titles. But the bond was undeniable. He showed up. He stayed. He chose me.
Years later, when I met my biological father, a man I’d spent my life imagining, I felt... nothing. No warmth. No spark. No trace of myself in his face or his voice. Just the flatness of a story that never got written. And I realized I already had my answer. I already knew what a real father felt like.
It was Joey.
This Father’s Day, I recorded a letter for him. I didn’t send socks or a bottle of something. I sent my voice. My memories. My thanks. Because I’ve learned that being a father isn’t just about DNA. It’s about presence. Protection. Stubborn, unconditional love. It’s about the ones who stay. The ones who kiss you on the forehead without hesitation. The ones who show you, day by day, that you are lovable, safe, and worth coming home to.
Joey helped raise me. He made space for me in a world that never had much. And now, as time softens his once-strong body and Parkinson’s tries to steal pieces of him, I find myself wanting to hold on tighter. To keep him here. To repay what can never truly be repaid.
Fatherhood isn’t just biology. It’s a verb. A way of being in the world with and for someone. Joey fathered me. He fathered me into stillness, into laughter, into belief. Into knowing that I belong.
And that, I think, is what it means to have a father.
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