He persisted. Every night, he would softly knock on my door and say, “Hey, kiddo.” How did today’s classes go?
I would mumble, “Okay,” without taking my eyes from my book. Stephen’s good-intentioned attempts simply served to highlight how much I had lost, and I mourned my mother with a pain he could never comprehend.
My comments would be more incisive on difficult days. “Mom is what I want, not you!” I would lose it. Stephen, however, remained steadfast in his tolerance.
He attended every school function, no matter how little, made sure my schoolwork was finished, and had supper ready every night. I first brushed it off, assuming he was only acting out of obligation.
He said something that stuck with me one night after we got into another dispute over my curfew. “Nancy, I’m doing my best here.
This is also difficult for me. I had screamed out in rage, “You’re not my dad! You can’t give me instructions!
