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.

When I was done, he didn’t say a word about Travis.

He didn’t ask what was wrong with that man, the way some fathers would’ve.

He just asked one question.

“Does Travis know you’re asking me?”

“No,” I said.

He was quiet for a long time. I could hear the clock over his stove ticking. That clock’s been

ticking in that kitchen since before I was born.

“Well,” he finally said. “What time do I need to be there?”

I told him JV played at five-thirty. Senior night would be right after. Around a quarter to seven.

He said he’d be there by six.

My father has never been late to anything in his life.

“Dad,” I said. “You’d have to walk all the way across the gym floor. It’s a long way. With the cane.”