My stepdad, Greg, never said 'I love you.' He was a hard man. Worked construction. Came home, ate, slept. He paid for my college. He paid for my car. But he never hugged me. I always thought he resented me. I wasn't his real son. Greg died of a heart attack last week. I was cleaning out his truck. In the glove box, I found a worn-out notebook. It was a diary. Entry 1: Met a woman with a boy today. The boy looks sad. I want to make him smile. Entry 50: The boy needs braces. Picking up extra shifts. Entry 200: He graduated today. I stayed in the back so I wouldn't embarrass him with my dirty work clothes. I've never been prouder. Entry 500: I wish I knew how to talk to him. I just hope he knows I’d die for him. I sat in the driver's seat of his dusty truck and cried until I couldn't breathe. He didn't say it. He did it. Every single day. Love isn't always words. Sometimes, it’s calloused hands and a tired back. Anonymous