My father left us when I was barely a few months old. Took my mom’s spousal immigration sponsorship and bounced. Left behind his name and his dimples. Years later my mom decided to get married to a carpenter; a working class stone of a man who liked to wield his hand on his tools and, as we would find out, on his own household. I mostly remember a blank void from those few long years; staying outside to avoid what waited for me at home. We endured all this so I could have a “father figure” in my life. Little did my mother know that she was the best father I could’ve ever asked for. Much love to all the dads out there, the good, the imperfect, the accidental, the surrogates.