Tonight I hung the Fourth of July photo back on the fridge. The one where we're all eating watermelon, juice dripping down our chins.
My stepson Riley is in the middle, his real dad on one side, me on the other. My wife took the picture with a timer.
That was the last holiday everyone was in one frame. Riley's dad moved to Arizona two months later. Riley goes there every other summer now.
I'm a substitute teacher, so I'm used to being temporary. But I've been in this house for four years, and I still feel like the extra in the photo.
Tonight was my first day back after a week off. I wore my whistle on a lanyard for the first time since spring. It felt heavy.
I blew it at recess, and a kid asked if I was a real teacher. I said yes, but I'm not sure I believed it.
Riley called after dinner. He said he saw fireworks from his dad's back porch. I wanted to say I miss him, but I just told him to brush his teeth.
I stared at the photo for a long time after I hung it. We were all smiling, but I was holding the watermelon with both hands, like I was afraid it would float away.
Maybe that's what love is. Holding on anyway, even when you know you're just the substitute.