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.

night before.

Travis noticed me watching.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Nobody,” I said.

That was a lie. It sat in my mouth like a sour mint.

At twelve minutes after six, the side door swung open.

And my father walked through it.

My whole chest let go of something I’d been holding since Tuesday supper.He was wearing his tan Sunday sport coat. The one he wore to my mother’s funeral. And to Mason’s baptism. And to

nothing in between.

Under it, a white shirt buttoned all the way to the top.

And on his head, his seed corn cap. The good one. The green one he keeps on the hook by the

back door and only wears to town.

His cane was in his right hand. His shoes were shined.