On Mother’s Day, I posted about both of the women who have been mothers in my life: my birth mother, Vicki, and my adopted mother, Barbara.

Now it’s time to honor the men that have been a father to me.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last four years working with kids. Some come from great families. Some from families that are just trying to hold it all together. Some don’t even know what the word “family” means.
I’m really lucky. I have two: my birth parents- still together- John and Vicki, and my “adopted parents,” Buddy and Barbara. They didn’t adopt me. I adopted them.
I could write about all the ways both sets have been there for me. But, it’s Mother’s Day weekend, so dads are getting …

I can’t breathe. There’s no air in this room, even with the window cracked. That last breath was probably my last, and this is where it ends, in this apartment, this bedroom, this shrine to my childhood my parents have created. There’s the game ball from a no-hitter. A plastic trophy for graduating kindergarten. A framed newspaper article with a picture of me sliding into second, spikes raised thigh-high (I dare you to tag me, I dare you), a prom photo from the only one I didn’t take her …