It’s Father’s Day, and I want to write about my dad.
I guess I should start by explaining that my dad isn’t my father.
My biological father committed suicide when I was six months old, leaving me and my 20 year old mom to make it on our own.
I have no memory of him. There’s one picture of him holding me—I think it was taken in the delivery room, right after I was born. He looks confused and uncomfortable, holding the tiny bundle that was me in a non-committal way.
I don’t remember being held by him. He didn’t hold on long enough for the feeling to last.

You know what I do remember, though?
I remember Sam holding my hand while I was still figuring out how to walk.
I remember Sam holding onto the back of my bike seat until he could feel me find my balance, then letting go and cheering me on as I took my first ride down the street without my training wheels.
I remember Sam bringing home my first puppy.
I remember Sam waking me up too early in the morning—like I’d made him promise to do—so I could ride out to the ranch with him and play in the dirt while he worked.
I remember Sam teaching me how to dribble a basketball and aim for “nothin’ but the net.”
I remember Sam sitting attentively in the audience at every single one of my ballet, piano, and choir recitals.
I remember Sam teaching me the importance of looking a person in the eye when they’re talking to you.
I remember Sam teaching me how to drive a Chevy Silverado.
I remember Sam surprising me with my very first (dream) car.
I remember Sam at my high school graduation.
I remember Sam helping me load all my clothes, books, and CDs into the minivan and moving me into my first college dorm.
I remember Sam changing the oil in my car every time I came home to visit.
I remember Sam at my college graduation.
I remember Sam giving Nathan his blessing to propose to me.
I remember Sam walking me down the aisle—“Dad, I’m so nervous right now. Everyone’s watching me. I can’t feel my feet…” 
I remember Sam saying “I got you.”
How many more memories?
A lifetime’s worth, because that’s how long he’s held onto me.
And I remember them all—all the ways Sam has been a father to me.
That’s what makes him my dad,
and makes me the luckiest daughter in the whole world.