I see my daughter several of times a day. The preteen on Prince Street, clutching her dad’s hand over her shoulder; the gurgling pink and white bundle, bouncing on her mother’s knee; the silly schoolgirls shoving each other and shouting at their mom. I say to myself “That’s my girl.” I wonder about our days together as father and daughter—what we’ll bond over, what she’ll resent me for, how I’ll pore and fuss over her to no end. My affections for her grow stronger each day. I say her name. I whisper to her at night. I tell myself I’m out of my depth. People ask if I’m excited about becoming a dad. I’m not going to be a dad, I am a dad.