Chapter 3: The Walk That Stopped the Gym
At exactly 6:12 p.m., the side entrance opened.
I noticed the movement first because I had been watching the doors for nearly twenty minutes.
Then I saw my father.
Duane Ostrem.
Seventy-nine years old.
Tan Sunday jacket.
Pressed white shirt.
Polished shoes.
His favorite green seed-company cap sat firmly on his head, and his wooden cane rested in his right hand.
He paused just inside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the bright gym.
For one second, he looked smaller than I remembered.
Not because he'd changed overnight, but because the years had finally begun to catch up with him.
His shoulders were a little narrower.
His steps were careful.
His left hand hovered near his hip as he shifted his weight.
But he had come.
He had driven all the way from his farm in Larkin County because his granddaughter had asked him to be there.
I felt my eyes fill.
Beside me, Travis was studying the printed ceremony program.
He hadn't noticed Dad yet.
My father didn't head toward the bleachers.
He walked straight along the edge of the court toward the athletes waiting near the far sideline.
Cane.
Step.
Pause.
Cane.
Step.
Pause.
I could almost hear his familiar voice reminding me that there was no prize for arriving somewhere faster than your body could manage.
Then Kaylee saw him.
Her entire face changed.
The nervous expression she'd worn since arriving at the school disappeared, replaced by a smile so bright that I forgot, for a moment, how hurt she'd been two nights earlier.
“Grandpa!””
She hurried toward him.
Dad lifted his free arm.
She wrapped him in a careful hug, mindful of his hip.
“You came!””
He looked down at her.
“Did you think I wouldn't?””
“No.””
She shook her head, smiling.
“I just wanted to see you.””
“Well, here I am.””
He straightened the shoulder of her uniform.
Then he looked at her jersey.
“Number seventeen,” he said proudly.
“My favorite player.””
She laughed.
“You say that about all your grandkids.””
“Because I have excellent taste.””
She slipped her arm through his.
For a moment, they simply stood together at the sideline, waiting for the announcer to call the seniors.
That's when Travis finally noticed them.
He turned toward the court.
His eyes moved from Kaylee to my father, then back to me.
“Jodi,” he said quietly.
“Is that your father?””
I nodded.
“Kaylee asked him to escort her.””
He stared at them.
I couldn't tell whether he was angry, embarrassed, or simply confused.
Perhaps it was all three.
He looked as though he had expected Kaylee to accept his refusal and quietly move on.
He hadn't considered that she might ask someone else.
Someone who wouldn't hesitate.
Someone who wouldn't need to decide whether she deserved the honor.
“Why didn't you tell me he was coming?”” he asked.
I kept my eyes on my daughter.
“Because I wanted tonight to be about Kaylee.””
He didn't respond.
The announcer began introducing the graduating volleyball players.
The first senior crossed the court with her mother.
Applause filled the gym.
The second followed with her father, who lifted his daughter's hand as they reached center court.
The third walked beside both parents.
Each student received a red rose to give to someone special.
The crowd clapped.
Phones rose.
Families smiled through tears.
Then the announcer paused.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our fourth senior of the evening.””
My heart began pounding.
“Number seventeen, Kaylee Brandt!””
The gym erupted in applause.
Kaylee stepped forward.
Beside her, my father adjusted his grip on the cane.
The announcer continued.
“Tonight, Kaylee will be escorted by her grandfather, Mr. Duane Ostrem!””
A few people near the front turned to look.
Someone whispered his name.
Dad had lived in Larkin County for decades.
He'd cared for dairy cattle on his farm for fifty-one years.
He'd helped neighbors repair fences after storms, hauled feed for families who were struggling, and shown up whenever someone needed an extra pair of hands.
There were people in that gym who had known him longer than Travis had known me.
They recognized him.
And they understood what it meant to see him standing beside his granddaughter.
Kaylee took his arm.
Dad planted the rubber tip of his cane on the polished floor.
Then they began to walk.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Cane.
Step.
Step.
The rubber tip squeaked faintly against the hardwood.
Dad kept his eyes lowered, concentrating on every movement.
Kaylee matched his pace without hesitation.
She didn't tug him forward.
She didn't rush to keep up with the ceremony.
She simply walked beside him, smiling down at him whenever he glanced her way.
The entire gym seemed to grow quieter.
At first, I thought it was because people were watching closely.
Then someone in the highest row stood up.
A man in a work jacket.
He clapped, looking toward my father with an expression I couldn't quite describe.
Another person rose beside him.
Then an entire section stood.
The applause spread across the bleachers.
Farmers who had known Dad for decades got to their feet.
Parents stood.
Students stood.
Teachers stood.
Even members of the visiting team rose from their seats.
Within seconds, nearly the entire gym was on its feet.
The noise swelled until it seemed to shake the streamers hanging from the railings.
I covered my mouth.
Tears blurred the court.
My father never looked toward the crowd.
He didn't wave.
He didn't smile for the cameras.
He kept his attention on the floor, making sure each step was steady enough to carry him and his granddaughter safely to center court.
Kaylee leaned closer to him.
I couldn't hear what she said.
But I saw him turn his head toward her.
He smiled.
Then he took another step.
And another.
My daughter was crying now, though she was still smiling.
The red rose waited at center court.
The announcer stood beside it, visibly moved.
I had never seen anything like it.
A man with a cane, walking at a pace that forced an entire gymnasium to slow down and pay attention.
A girl who could have chosen almost anyone, walking with the grandfather who had never made her question whether she mattered.
And hundreds of people rising to their feet to honor a love that had never needed a title.
Then I glanced toward Travis.
He wasn't clapping.
While everyone around us stood and applauded, he remained seated, his hands motionless beside his knees.
His eyes were fixed on Kaylee and my father.
His jaw tightened.
He reached for the metal railing at the end of our row and gripped it so firmly that his knuckles began to pale.
I knew that expression.
In nine years of marriage, I'd seen it only a handful of times.
It was the look Travis wore when something inside him was shifting and he didn't know how to stop it.
He looked at Kaylee.
Then at Dad.
Then down at his own hands.
For a second, I thought he might finally stand and join the applause.
Instead, he turned toward me.
“Jodi,” he said, his voice barely audible above the crowd.
I looked at him.
“What?””
He swallowed.
“Did she really ask him because I said no?””
The question landed harder than I expected.
I wanted to tell him that he already knew the answer.
I wanted to remind him of the words he'd spoken over dinner, the way Kaylee had gone upstairs without arguing, and the silence that had followed her all the way to Thursday night.
But I didn't say any of that.
I looked back at my daughter.
She and Dad were halfway across the court.
Cane.
Step.
Step.
The crowd continued applauding.
Travis's expression changed.
The confusion disappeared.
In its place came something rawer.
Something that looked painfully close to regret.
Then he glanced toward the court again, and I saw his fingers loosen around the railing.
He rose from his seat.
For one brief moment, I thought he was finally going to clap.
But he didn't.
He stepped into the aisle.
Then he started down the bleachers, moving faster than I'd ever seen him move during an ordinary school ceremony.
“Travis?”” I whispered.
He didn't answer.
He kept his eyes on Kaylee.
At center court, my father had nearly reached the red rose.
Kaylee's hand remained linked through his arm.
The entire gym was still standing.
And my husband, the man who had insisted that the ceremony belonged to real fathers, was moving toward the very court he'd refused to enter.
I watched him reach the bottom of the bleachers.
He stopped at the edge of the polished floor.
May you like
For one second, he stood completely still.
Then he took a breath, looked toward my daughter, and did something none of us expected.
