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. He was nothing like the men she’d briefly dated before—no bravado, no charm games, no demands.
Gary was quiet. Observant. He noticed when the cabinet hinge squeaked and fixed it.
Not even when he worked nights. 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. The Card, the Book, the Lemon Bars
Now 25 and living out of state, I had finally reached the point where I was ready to say it all. I spent hours writing the card—more letter than greeting, really.
I poured my heart into it. “You weren’t my father by blood,” I wrote, “but you showed up. You stayed.
You mattered.”
I signed it “With love, always — Jenna.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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