When I was a kid, my life didn’t unfold the way you’d expect. My mom had me at 17, still just a teenager herself, and wasn’t really interested in raising a child. So, I was brought up by my grandparents—and by my Aunt Sue, who was only 20 at the time.

Aunt Sue had been dating a guy named Michael for about five years. They were supposed to get married but ended up breaking things off before the wedding. He wasn’t related to me, and after the breakup, there was no reason for him to stick around.

But he did.

Michael became a constant in my life. He didn’t seem to have a steady job, but he always found time for me. He’d show up at my grandparents’ house without knocking—just waltz in like he belonged—and take me out to Funworld, the movies, bowling, even to the hardware store. Once, he took me to a bar (hey, it was the ’80s), and other times to McDonald’s, where I got to order whatever I wanted. His car was always a disaster zone—fast food wrappers, soda cups, the works—and perpetually running on fumes. One time, when I was only eight, he let me drive it around the block.

We had our little routines. He’d call me just to chat for hours about school, gossip, and silly songs we made up about the kids in my class. We’d visit his mom, who always had treats for me. My grandmother would make him tea—extra cream and sugar—and he’d try to talk politics with my grandfather, which usually ended in playful bickering.

Michael didn’t just show up—he gave. For birthdays and Christmas, he went above and beyond. He bought me an Atari, a trampoline, a Sony Walkman, even a dog named Sammy. Once, he brought me a salamander in a butter tub. Sadly, my grandma left it in the sun by accident, and it didn’t make it. But I still remember how excited he was to give it to me.

One time, the neighborhood kids had a granite collecting contest. Michael showed up with a bunch of scrap granite from houses he’d worked on. I won, hands down. Another time, I made an awful-looking flower arrangement—he bought it. It stayed in his house for years, ugly and loved.

He was there for Father’s Day. He was there when I got married—I gave him back the fish tank he once bought me, the one where my favorite fish, Trash Can, lived for 15 years.

Looking back now, I know how unusual that bond was. Michael wasn’t creepy or inappropriate—just a man who never really grew up, but who cared in a way few grownups do. In many ways, he gave me the fatherly attention and affection that a lot of kids never get, even from their own dads.

After my grandparents passed, we lost touch. He’s not online, and I doubt he still lives in that house in the woods. But I think about him often. I wonder where he is. I hope he’s okay.

Because no matter what his title was, Michael was family. And I was lucky to have him.