I brought a tray of my mother’s lemon bars, a well-chosen World War II biography, and a handwritten card that took me ten years to write when I made the six-hour drive back to my childhood home on Father’s Day.

I believed that I was closing a chapter by returning home. Lastly, I would like to thank the man who filled in for my father. Instead, what I discovered disproved all of my preconceived notions about the man I nearly called Dad.

The Man Who Interceded
Before I could even create a memory of my biological father, he vanished. It was just my mother and I against the world from the moment I could speak. She made dinner every night, worked two jobs, and kissed my forehead before every test. She also brought home a man named Gary when I was fifteen.

He lacked the bluster, charm, and demands of the men she had previously dated for a short time. Gary didn’t say anything. perceptive. He fixed the cabinet hinge after noticing that it was squeaking. He applauded my school plays as if they were the first shows on Broadway. And there were pancakes every Sunday morning, just like clockwork. He never skipped a day of work. Not even at night when he worked.Read More Below