My husband refused to walk my 17-year-old daughter, his stepdaughter for nine years, at her high school senior night. “That’s something a real father should do,” he told her. But when her name was announced Thursday evening, her 79-year-old grandfather appeared with his walking cane and proudly accompanied her onto the court.

about it.

Mrs. Larson asked what name she should put instead.

“Duane Ostrem,” I said. “Her grandfather.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” she said.

And then, carefully, because it’s a small town and she wasn’t born yesterday: “Is everything all right

at home, Jodi?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Kaylee asked for her grandpa.”

That was true.

It just wasn’t all of it.

Wednesday night after supper, I called Dad.

He picks up on the fourth ring. Every single time. The phone hangs on the wall in the kitchen, and his recliner is in the front room.

I told him all of it. Travis. Tuesday’s supper. Those words. Real dads.

He didn’t interrupt once.

He listened the way he used to listen to a cow that was off her feed. Quiet. Patient.