He didn’t come in trying to be “Dad.” There were no big gifts or fake charm. He just started showing up. He’d fix the leaky faucet. Bring over groceries. Sit at our tiny kitchen table and listen to my mom like whatever she said mattered.
At first, I ignored him.
I’d hide in my room, refuse to say hi, glare when he laughed too loud. Liking him felt like betraying my father.
My mom never forced it. “Say hi if you want. If not, that’s okay,” she’d say.
Mark never pushed either.
“Hey, Natalie,” he’d say when he came in, like he didn’t expect anything back.
One day, my bike chain slipped off, and I was in the driveway, crying and kicking the tire because I couldn’t get it back on. Mark came out with a rag and a wrench.
“Want some help?” he asked.
I sniffed. “It’s broken.”
He crouched down. “Bikes can be jerks.”
