Father’s Day was Sunday, and for millions of people it meant celebrating the impact their father had on their life by making him breakfast in bed, grilling out, or even making homemade cards out of crayons with promises to mow the lawn. It’s a fantastic holiday, if the father is around.

Every year divorce is increasingly common. And for people like myself, the person we called on Sunday wasn’t on our genetic family tree.

I first met my dad when I was a toddler. From what I gather he fell in love with that hyperactive toddler version of myself and married my mother a few years later. Since then he helped sculpt me from that hyperactive toddler into the hyperactive guy you’ve likely seen sprinting down the trails.

They say you can’t pick your family. I beg to differ.

When I was 14 years old I emancipated myself and filed for a name change. Up until then my name was Matthew Truitt, but it didn’t seem right that the guy who deserted his role in raising me should get the honor of having his name carried on.

I may not be able to pass on my dad’s genes for having a muscular build and an almost religious devotion to football, but I will pass on the traits I picked up while he raised me.

There’s no such thing as a bad time for cake, fires are awesome, and cowboy boots are the epitome of cool.

Genetics mean nothing when it comes to family, most particularly to fathers.

The truly fantastic thing about my dad is that legally he was only my step-dad from when I was 4 years old until I was 22 years old.

But just because their marriage ended when I was well over the age of 18 and I was never legally adopted, it didn’t change anything.

He still gives me advice, tells me to calm down when bills get overwhelming, to relax when my truck breaks down, and to “stop being so hyper because it’s just going to give me a heart attack.” Even though I live really far away from Iowa now, he still manages to tell me things about myself that I’m unaware of.

Statistics say children raised in fatherless homes are more likely to do poorly in school, commit crimes, and even suicide.

My mom is fantastic, and I probably would have turned out just fine if my dad hadn’t stepped up to the plate.

But there are some things a mom really can’t do for her kids, particularly for boys.

He showed me how to stand up for myself without coming off as arrogant. He taught me how to fix things around the house, often without using duct tape.

Most importantly, he continues to encourage me to keep trying and believes in me even when I don’t.

Any man can make a son, but it takes years of dedication to be a father.

For mine it meant being hit below the belt with a baseball bat when the pinata at my fifth birthday party got out of control. It meant having my bedroom door slammed on him when I was 13 and getting in just as much trouble with my mom as I did when she caught me with Copenhagen in high school.

Now when I see kids and their dads out doing things and they look absolutely nothing alike, I wonder if they know just how lucky they are and if they came through with their Father’s Day card’s promise to mow the lawn.

After all, a crayon-drawn card is far more permanent than any legal document.