He had simply become her father, quietly and completely, the way some men do when they turn out to be better than anyone had any right to expect.

He packed her school lunches every morning and knew, without being told, which foods she would eat and which she would push around her plate.

He knew that a certain floppy-eared stuffed rabbit had to be positioned facing her bedroom door before she could fall asleep.

He could tell, across a crowded room, the difference between her real laugh, the bright unguarded one, and the careful, timid little chuckle she used around adults who made her nervous.

To Chloe, he was not a stepfather.