Holly is my daughter from my first marriage, and if you want to understand this story, you have to understand that Brandon has never once, in any word or act, treated that as a technicality.

He is the one who packs her school lunches, every morning, and knows without asking that the crusts come off and the apple gets sliced because she won’t bite into a whole one.

He knows which floppy-eared stuffed rabbit has to be positioned facing her bedroom door before she’ll sleep, and that if it faces the wrong way she’ll pad down the hall at midnight to fix it.

He can tell the difference — instantly, across a crowded room — between Holly’s real laugh, the loud helpless one that takes her whole body, and the small careful chuckle she puts on around adults who make her uneasy.