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.

After supper that Tuesday, Travis went out to the shed.

He does that when something’s on his mind. He says he’s checking inventory. But there isn’t much inventory to check in October.

I went upstairs and knocked on Kaylee’s door.

“Come in.”

She was lying on her bed with her shoes still on, which she knows I hate. Staring up at the ceiling fan.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “Because I don’t want to.”

I sat down on the edge of her bed.

Her room smells like the vanilla body spray every girl in her class wears. And like the knee pads she keeps forgetting to air out.

I didn’t mention the knee pads.

After a while, she said, “He’s not wrong, you know. He’s not my real dad.”