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.

I saw him do it.

He had his hands clasped between his knees. He kept rubbing his thumb over the side of his first

finger. A thing he does when he’s nervous.

“You okay?” I asked him.

“Fine,” he said.

The exact same flat voice Kaylee had used on Tuesday.

For one second, they sounded so much alike I almost laughed. Except nothing about it was funny.

The JV girls played the visitors from two towns over. They lost the first set. Then won the next two.

Mason cheered for both teams. He didn’t entirely understand which side was ours.

At six o’clock, I watched the side door.

At six-oh-five, I watched it harder.

Dad has never been late. But he’s also never been seventy-nine with a new hip on a cold October