Some words come with preconceived ideas attached, built from personal experiences or the stories society tells. For me, one of those words is stepdad. Beyond its dictionary definition, this word often carries a negative connotation.
As a little girl, I’d lie on my stomach, chin in my hands, close enough to the television to disappear into its stories: Snow White, Cinderella and other Disney fairytales. In each, the step-parent was a villain, driven by greed and jealousy. It’s no wonder the word stepdad carried baggage long before I met one.
There are many men (and women) who quietly step into families already formed. They may not witness the birth or hear the first word, but they choose to be there for all the milestones still to come. My own stepdad was one of them, and he was nothing like the characters I’d watched on the screen.
We were introduced to him when I was nine and my sister was six. I can’t imagine trying to date with two kid tag-alongs, but we were often there. A picnic in the park, a bike ride along the Yarra River – he would encourage us to go “just a little bit further” with lolly snakes and Tim Tams. There were trips to art galleries, followed by a Happy Meal at Clifton Hill McDonald’s. Here, he’d talk about the 1930s art deco building housing the eatery while we sat nibbling on our french fries.
As I moved into my teens, I met friends who also had a step-parent. They would sometimes ask, “So, how’s your stepdad?” in a tone that suggested they were hoping I’d have a horror story to share. Their assumption was that life with a stepdad was difficult, so I began dropping “step” from introductions. Not as a replacement for my biological father, but because that little four-letter prefix didn’t describe the relationship we had.
Just like his personality, his love for my sister and me was never loud. Instead, there were consistent, quiet acts of care, repeated over and over. A secret trip to Officeworks so we could buy Mum a Mother’s Day gift: a Looney Tunes mouse pad and stationery set. Every birthday, the perfect book would appear; he always knew what I’d like to read before I did.
From the very first cocooning hug from my new grandparents, there was an unspoken promise that my sister and I would always belong.
He taught me to drive a stick shift in his little red Ford Laser. I dropped the clutch too fast, sending the car into a full burnout that left tyre marks on our suburban backstreet for months. The laughter only stopped once I’d bunny-hopped to a stop in our driveway.
He also walked me down the aisle. It wasn’t because I loved my biological father any less, but because he’d been there for the everyday moments that quietly shaped my life: carrying me into emergency with a suspected broken leg; helping build a papier-mâché volcano for school; making me a wooden remembrance cross after a young friend died. He’d wager a chocolate bar on what his mum was cooking for our Friday night family dinners, collect me from late shifts at Target, and dance with me at my debutante despite having absolutely no rhythm whatsoever.
It wasn’t until a colleague made an offhand remark in my early 20s that I realised just how fortunate I was. “You’re so lucky to have so many people who love you,” she said. She was right. I didn’t just have my mum and my dad’s families. I gained an entire extra family, who chose to love us as their own. From the very first cocooning hug from my new grandparents, there was an unspoken promise that my sister and I would always belong. There was no distinction between biological grandchildren and step-grandchildren. We were simply family.
In my late 20s, I underwent emergency surgery. With my husband overseas, I returned to my childhood home to recover. One afternoon, looking for a book, I wandered into my stepdad’s home office. Between his Mac computer, scattered papers and shelves filled with fine china sat a handwritten Post-it note with a single word: endometriosis. It was what my surgeon had found. I don’t think he’d heard the term before.
I imagine Mum had called him from the hospital, and he’d written it down so he could look it up later, to quietly understand my pain. He could have left that for just Mum to comprehend, but instead he made it his business to learn how to care for me. For him, that meant hearty, gentle-on-the-stomach Jamie Oliver soups and stews, cooked without fuss but with much love.
I always hoped to have a son who could carry his name. It was my way of honouring the man who had quietly influenced my life. So when my doctor announced that I’d given birth to a healthy boy, the joy of becoming a mum came with the quiet happiness of knowing his name would live on – in my son’s middle name. Today, my children know him simply as Pop.
This story isn’t about drawing comparisons or diminishing the role of biological fathers. It’s an acknowledgement of the men who choose to step into families already in progress and to love them as their own. In particular, it’s about the man who fell in love with my mum, and two little ladies – my sister and me.
So, to all the men who step in, Happy Father’s Day.
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Kellie Floyd is a freelance writer and marketing and communications consultant.
