My stepfather never asked for anything. Not once in twelve years. He just showed up to every game, fixed the porch steps twice, kept his mouth shut when I called him by his first name until I was fifteen.
The muffler on his truck had been dragging for months. He'd wired it up with coat hangers on a Tuesday. I saw him under there, arms greasy to the elbow, saying nothing.
I was twenty-two, first real welding job, first real paycheck. Seven hundred and forty-two dollars after tax. I drove straight to the auto parts shop two towns over. Sandra at the counter knew my order before I finished — she'd seen him coming in for the same part four times, always leaving without it.
I paid cash. Left the box on his workbench in the garage with a note that just said "Friday." No return address, no explanation.
He never mentioned it. Not at dinner, not at the barbecue that weekend, not ever. But the muffler was quiet the next morning. I heard it from the driveway before I saw the truck.
The casserole dish his sister borrowed two Easters ago is still on our counter. I keep meaning to return it. But every time I pick it up, I remember that I was the one who finally learned how to give something back without being asked.