My biological father disappeared before I could form a single memory of him. From the time I was old enough to speak, it was just me and my mother—us against the world. She worked two jobs, made dinner every night, kissed my forehead before every exam. And when I was 15, she brought home a man named Gary.
I never called him “Dad.” The word felt like something sacred, locked behind the absence of the man who gave me my last name. But part of me wondered if, one day, I might.
After the Funeral, Just Us
Two years ago, cancer took my mother.
Gary and I didn’t grow closer, not in the way some would expect. We didn’t cry in each other’s arms or start new traditions. But he was there. He showed up at the funeral in a suit too tight at the shoulders, carrying the weight of grief in silence. Afterward, we spoke occasionally—birthdays, holidays, quiet check-ins.
And while the bond never deepened, I believed it was real. He had stayed. He had done the work. I owed him thanks.
