As I write this, a number of emotions surface. Disappointment. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. Mostly anger. I thought I had buried that anger somewhere in the seven years since our lives settled down again. But six years of turmoil can never be forgotten completely. I don’t know if I can ever totally let go of my anger, which is the fallout of love, dismissed.

All step-parents carry a certain burden. The first time I heard, “You’re not my real dad” it stung. I entered “Kristina’s” life when she was five and her brother was seven. Their own father wasn’t around and hadn’t really bothered to involve himself in their childhoods. I stepped into the role of stepfather with high hopes. By the time the events in Crank unfolded, I had come to care for Ellen’s children in a tangible way only raising them could make possible: helping them with homework, comforting them when they were hurt, celebrating birthdays, suffering parent-teacher conferences, and cheering each role in school plays.

Together, we went camping. Fishing. Swimming. We took family vacations to the beach. Theme parks. Museums and monuments like Hearst Castle. We weren’t exactly rolling in dough, but we made sure the kids had nice clothes and the latest toys. In return, we expected them to help out around the house and the garden, which was really another way we tried to stay connected. Ditto with the always plentiful pets: fish, cats, dogs. We had labs first, then German shepherds, all integral members of the family.

It was one of our dogs, in fact, who alerted us to a problem when Kristina was around fifteen. He  …