If I had a headache, she brought aspirin before I asked.
If I was pretending everything was fine, she usually watched me until I admitted it wasn’t.
By then, none of them called me Uncle Mason anymore.
The change happened gradually.
When they were little, it was “Uncle Mason.”
Then “Mason.”
Then one afternoon when Sophie was five, she came running out of kindergarten with a construction-paper turkey in her hand and shouted,
“Dad! Look!”
She froze.
I froze.
Her teacher smiled.
Sophie’s eyes became enormous.
“I mean—”
I crouched in front of her.
“What?”
She looked embarrassed.
“Uncle Mason.”
I swallowed.
“You can call me whatever feels right, kiddo.”
She stared at me.
Then she whispered,
“Can I call you Dad?”
I looked over at Lily and Brooke.
They were both listening.
Brooke shrugged.
“I already do at school.”
Lily nodded.
“Me too.”
I laughed.
Then I cried in the school parking lot.
