My stepdad raised me for fifteen years, though he never once used that word—step. To him, I was just his kid. He was there when I scraped my knees learning to ride a bike, when I bombed my first math test, when I graduated high school and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He never missed a school meeting, never forgot a birthday, never once reminded me that we didn’t share blood.

When he passed away, it felt like the ground dropped out from under me. The funeral was quiet and formal, filled with people who spoke of him in polite phrases, as if he were a résumé instead of a man. I stood near the back, holding myself together, replaying memories of fishing trips and late-night talks when he’d sit on the edge of my bed and say, “You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”

After the service, we were told there would be a will reading later that week. I showed up dressed plainly, nervous but hopeful. That hope lasted less than a minute.

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