For as long as he could remember, he questioned what was “wrong” with him.
He was the quiet one — content to watch firelight dance while his friends talked, his mind drifting somewhere else. He was the one who covered the bill for food, drinks, and snacks, whether it was to enjoy company or to earn it. He was the crazy one, jumping into freezing pools for a laugh, craving attention. And he was the sober one, the designated driver who made sure everyone got home safely, only to continue into the small hours alone.
Along the way, he would spot a stray dog, slam on the brakes, and rescue it — flea-ridden, broken, unwanted — adding it to his growing collection of saved things.
He took his life for granted, as long as he was seen as “nice.” As long as he had friends. Girlfriends, too — whom he kept at a careful distance, whether out of shyness, fear of commitment, or the deeper fear of rejection.
The truth was, he never felt like he truly belonged.
The masks he wore — the generous friend, the daredevil, the responsible caretaker — felt like cheap imitations. Flickering shadows of a genuine self he couldn’t quite grasp. The fear of being unmasked, of being revealed as fundamentally flawed, followed him everywhere. It whispered in the quiet moments, fueled the frantic need for acceptance, and turned connection into performance.
Maybe the problem wasn’t what was “wrong” with him — but what he was trying so desperately to hide.
Over the years, he became the go-to guy. The emcee. The videographer. The photographer. The best man. The chauffeur. He even stepped in as a father figure at a friend’s wedding. He gave relationship advice as marriages crumbled. He walked the careful line of loyalty, trying not to take sides, absorbing the weight of other people’s pain.
He endured tearful breakdowns, drunken advances, and the quiet resentment of knowing he never had the same advantages — loving fathers, funded educations, safety nets.
Still, he was there.
He drove children to games. Celebrated graduations. Fixed laptops. Took photos. Captured everything.
His apartment became a sanctuary and a storage unit — photo albums stacked high, hard drives humming with decades of other people’s memories. His own dreams faded quietly into the background, unacknowledged, unattended.
Through it all, he showed up.
He delivered a eulogy when a friend’s parent passed. Comforted children in church pews as they cried into his shoulder. Saved a friend’s life during a suicide attempt. And every Christmas, he put on a Santa suit, read the children’s letters in secret, and handed out joy with a wink.
Time moved on. The children grew up. The cycle repeated — weddings, separations, funerals.
Divorces doubled his obligations. Two households instead of one. More pets. More gardens. More favors. Moves overseas. Storage runs. Emergency calls.
He saw everything.
He became the keeper of secrets, the quiet confidant, the steady presence. Their lives wove together into a tapestry of joy and loss, all within the orbit of his reliability. The weight of it settled on him — gently, constantly — a burden he carried without complaint.
And yet, even in moments of gratitude and connection, a familiar ache remained.
The smiles helped. The thank-yous mattered. But they were never enough.
The quiet evenings alone — editing videos, organizing photos — were filled with the same question: Where did he fit in all of this?
He was the stagehand. The archivist. The one who made everything possible.
Always present. Always essential. Never the star.
The Santa suit, once joyful, became just another costume.
Now, as I sit here writing this, I can almost hear the question forming in your mind: Why did you do all of this?
I’ve asked myself the same thing for years.
Because I never had children of my own.
Because I grew up without a father.
Because I thought it was my duty.
Because I believed it was how I belonged.
And maybe — because I was hoping that one day, someone would ask me why.
They never did.
So I’ll answer it myself.
I cared.
And for a long time, that had to be enough.