For years, I kept my stepdad, Mark, at a distance. After my father left when I was six, Mark stepped in, attending my school events and teaching me to ride a bike. But I refused to call him “Dad,” feeling it betrayed my absent father. At eighteen, I left for college, nearly cutting him out. Five years later, my mom called: Mark was critically ill. I rushed home, but he was gone.
At his funeral, Mom gave me his worn jacket. I hid it away, unable to face my regret. Years later, sorting clothes, I found a note and a childhood photo of me in its pocket. The note read: “Even if you never call me ‘Dad,’ raising you was my greatest privilege. I’m proud of you, and I’ll love you forever. – Mark.” Tears fell as I realized family is defined by love, not blood. I can’t undo my distance, but I now live to honor the man who was truly my father.
