He stared at the flower.
“I needed to make that decision because she needed me.”
Then he told me something I had never heard in our nine years of marriage.
When Travis was twelve, his mother remarried.
His stepfather was named Dale.
Dale wasn’t cruel. He worked hard, provided for the household, and generally treated Travis fairly.
But he never considered himself Travis’s father.
That spring, Travis had participated in Little League.
At the end-of-season banquet, the boys were supposed to walk forward with their fathers to receive trophies.
Travis asked Dale to accompany him.
Dale refused.
“That’s your father’s responsibility,” he told the boy. “I’m not going to pretend I’m something I’m not.”
Travis’s biological father didn’t attend either.
So the twelve-year-old walked forward alone, accepted his trophy, and returned to his seat.
He never asked Dale to accompany him to another event.
