They Asked for My Dads
My mom died giving birth to me. They couldn't save her.
My dad? He dumped me outside a prison and ran. Didn't even look back.
It was five degrees. I was basically frozen. Barely breathing.
Later, a guard said the whole max block lost it that night.
One hundred eight inmates—death row, life sentences—went crazy. Slamming doors. Smashing windows. Yelling they wanted to keep me.
In the end, they filed a letter.
Not a breakout plan.
A custody request.
Somehow... it got approved.
From that day on, I had 108 dads.
But growing up, I found out the truth.
They weren't criminals.
On paper, they were dead—killed in the line of duty.
In reality, they were still out there, serving.
Eighteen years later, I got into one of the top high schools—with the highest score in the State of Ashford.
On the fifth day, I beat the rich girl, Vivian Cobbley, by one point on a mock exam.
Next thing I knew, my name was all over the bulletin board:
[Riley Ray, daughter of murderers!]
Vivian cornered me in the bathroom and shoved my head into a toilet.
"Your dads are killers. That filth's in you too."
She beat me so hard I dragged her down when we went over the second-floor railing.
When I woke up, the Dean of Students was right in my face, finger in my face.
"No surprise you're violent. It's in your blood. Call your criminal dads. Now."
I shook.
"Mr. Todd... you sure you want me to call them?"