Read time: 5 min.

My family is devastated. My stepdad, Jerry, passed away on Wednesday. It doesn’t feel real. The weight of it hasn’t fully settled, but it’s coming. I still can’t believe I’m writing this- we thought Jerry would be here forever.

I was seven when Mom and Jerry got married. For twenty-eight years -eighty percent of my life- he was just there. Not in the background and not on the sidelines, but fully present. He claimed my brother, sister, and me as his own with the same pride and love he gave his two sons. 

At the center of everything, though, was Mom. Whatever idea she had, whatever place she wanted to go, Jerry’s answer was always the same: Let’s do it. We’ll figure it out. They did. Together, they saw the world and explored more than thirty countries! Jerry had a rare gift for turning encouragement into action. Dreaming was one thing, but making it happen was his specialty.

Aside from all the big trips and passport stamps, Jerry showed up in hundreds of smaller ways. For me, that was often in the garage. He helped fix -or more often, just outright rescue- my never-ending parade of washed-up shitboxes. Not long ago, we were replacing my alternator when I got distracted by a text. Jerry stopped threading the belt past the pulley and said, “Hey, you need to pay attention to this, Ted. I won’t always be here to show you this stuff.” I laughed it off at the time, but never thought those words would come true so quickly.

Jerry and I genuinely enjoyed each other’s company, I think, even if we didn’t share a lot of the same interests. Still, he’d text me every so often and invite me to lunch, especially when he knew I was struggling with my Bipolar. I appreciated it, but I always thought of those as simple, easy moments. Then I found out he’d been quietly reading this blog and following along far more closely than I ever realized. It floored me. He was paying attention in ways I hadn’t even thought to notice.

Looking back, I’m starting to understand that those small moments weren’t small to him at all: they were how Jerry stayed connected; how he showed up. Once I recognized that, I began to see just how much he valued our time together. I can’t begin to count all the ordinary occasions when I’d barge into his living room unannounced from the garage. Jerry and Mom made it so I could always go home whenever I wanted, and I wanted to often.

Back in November, I had the chance to take what turned out to be one last vacation with Mom and Jerry. We headed to the Great Smoky Mountains. We stayed in a condo in Sevierville, wandered through the national park, and ate way too many pancakes. A few weeks ago when my mom was busy, Jerry stepped in without hesitation and joined me on a trip to visit poor farms in northern Indiana. We spent the day tracking down old infirmaries in DeKalb and Whitley Counties and capped it off with giant tenderloins at a roadside diner with a chicken statue out front. It was simple. It was fun. Now, it’s a cherished memory. 

I’m sad to say things changed quickly. The past few weeks have been brutal, full of conflicting updates and shifting realities depending on who was consulted. Somewhere in that fog, I had two chances to speak with Jerry. I wish I’d made the most of them, but I’m ashamed to admit that the words never quite came when he could still hear me. A few days later, I said goodbye over the phone, not even sure if he was still there to receive my message. Even at the unfair end, though, Jerry was still giving. His final act was to help others as an organ donor.

Jerry’s absence leaves a space nothing can fill. It’s not just the big moments- it’s the small ones where he used to be: steady, certain, and already halfway to a solution before the rest of us even realized there was a problem. That’s who Jerry was: his life was an unbroken pattern of showing up by doing, fixing, helping, loving- again and again, without much fanfare and without fail. My mom felt that most deeply, but all of us -his sons, stepsons, stepdaughter, and beloved granddaughter- lived in the steadiness of it every single day.

I was lucky to have two very different father figures in my life. There was my dad, who I lost fifteen years ago. Then there was Jerry. As I got older, I realized that “stepdad” never really fit him: it felt too small, too clinical. Still, “Dad” didn’t quite capture him either to me. Over time, my stepdad became something simpler and more personal than either title. He was just my Jerry, and he knew it. I miss him terribly.

What a great guy. Jerry Miller was 72. I still can’t believe he’s gone.