When I was 15, my mom remarried a man named Gary. My father had left when I was a baby, and for most of my teenage years, it was just Mom and me.
We lived in a small house on the edge of town and were very close. Mom meant everything to me.
So, when she brought Gary into our lives, I didn’t know what to expect. I wasn’t really ready to share my world with him.
But to my surprise, he was kind. Always smiling, always patient.
He fixed things around the house that had been broken for months. He made me pancakes on Sundays, perfectly golden and stacked high with butter melting down the sides. He came to school plays, even the terrible ones, where I forgot half my lines. He remembered birthdays and bought me my first calculator for high school math class.
“You’re going to need this for calculus,” he’d said, handing me the small device in its clear plastic case. “Smart girl like you.”
When I fought with Mom, he played the peacemaker.
I remember he never took sides. He just listened patiently.
Sometimes, he’d knock on my door after a particularly bad argument.
“Your mom loves you, you know,” he’d say quietly. “She just worries.”
“I know,” I’d mumble back, still angry but somehow feeling better.
I never called him “Dad,” but sometimes I thought… maybe I should. The word felt strange in my mouth whenever I considered it. Too big. Too permanent. But Gary never pushed.
Still, there was always a quiet distance between us. Something I couldn’t quite name. I chalked it up to the awkwardness of not being related by blood.
We were learning each other, I told myself. Building something from scratch.
But over time, I grew to appreciate his presence. I believed that he had stepped into my life and chosen to care for me when he didn’t have to.
