Frank had married my mother when I was four.
In the beginning, I refused to call him anything.
Not Frank.
Not Dad.
Nothing at all.
If he asked whether I wanted toast, I simply pointed toward the bread.
If he offered to read to me before bed, I disappeared beneath the covers.
My biological father had vanished before I was old enough to remember him, and even at four, I had already learned not to trust men who arrived carrying luggage.
Frank never forced his way into my life.
He discovered that I liked strawberry jam spread right to the edges of my toast.
During thunderstorms, he sat in the hallway outside my room because I would not allow him inside.
And every Sunday morning, he made apple pancakes, using an old metal cutter to shape them into stars.
One morning, nearly three months after he married my mother, I wandered into the kitchen and accidentally called him Dad.
