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.

For a while, he called on her birthdays. Then he called on some of them.

The last call came when she turned eleven. He promised he’d drive down for her confirmation.

He didn’t come.

That was six years ago.

She still has a phone number for him. She hasn’t dialed it since seventh grade. She keeps it in her contacts under his first name. Ryan. Not Dad.

Travis came along when Kaylee was seven.

He sells seed corn and soybeans out of a pole shed north of town. He came into the dental clinic where I work with a cracked molar.

I cleaned his teeth for two whole years before he asked me to supper.

He told me later that he’d been scheduling his six-month cleanings at five months. So he could see me sooner.