That Tuesday evening in October began like any other. I’d prepared tater tot hotdish for dinner, our family’s favorite meal. My husband Travis sat across from me, our eight-year-old son Mason was busy eating, and my daughter Kaylee seemed unusually nervous.
She was a high school senior, a talented volleyball player, and one of six graduating athletes being honored at Thursday’s final home game.
Each senior would walk onto the court accompanied by family members, receive recognition, and pose for photographs.
Kaylee had been looking forward to the ceremony for weeks.
Halfway through dinner, she turned toward Travis.
“Will you walk me onto the court Thursday night?”
He placed his fork beside his plate.
“Kay, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Because that walk belongs to your real father. I don’t want to take a place that isn’t mine.”
The kitchen became painfully quiet.
Kaylee stared at him.
“But you always come to my games.”
