But he set his fork down. « Kay, that honor belongs to your real dad. I don’t want to step into a role that isn’t mine. »
Kaylee just said, « Okay. » She rinsed her plate and went upstairs. No shouting, no slammed door. The silence hurt worse.
Our eight-year-old, Mason, looked at me to fix it. I said nothing.
I could have made Travis do it. He was a good man who usually listened. But I didn’t want my daughter escorted by a man who was only there because I’d ordered it. I wanted Travis to realize, on his own, that nine years had already earned him that place.
So I waited. He went out to his seed warehouse after dinner, and the apology never came.
Later I found Kaylee in her room. After a long quiet, she asked, « Mom, could Grandpa walk with me instead? »
My father, Duane Ostrem, was seventy-nine, fifty-one years of dairy farming up in Larkin County behind him, a cane in his hand since the hip surgery. He wasn’t fast. But Kaylee adored him.
I called him and explained. He didn’t criticize Travis. He asked one question. « What time should I be there, sweetheart? »
Thursday, the gym was packed. At 6:12 the side door opened and there was Dad — Sunday jacket, pressed shirt, green seed cap, hickory cane — walking straight past the bleachers to the athletes.
Travis, beside me, went still. « Jodi… is that your father? »
