In November, my social studies teacher gave the class an end-of-term assignment. The instructions were both specific and vague. We were tasked with submitting a project on our upbringing. But we were left to decide how to tell this story, whether it was by creating a family yearbook, a short story or a comic strip. We all had to incorporate one aspect into our finished product: a family tree with pictures. Students were able to go as far back as they wished, depending on how much information they could get, or just focus on their immediate family unit.

The project, for me, should have been a breeze. I had enough designer construction paper and other art supplies to decorate a city street. But the problem was that I didn’t have much of a story to tell. My family started with Mom and ended with Jesse. I also didn’t want to bring attention to my fractured tree. What if the teacher or someone else asked about something? I didn’t want people to know. Finally, there were the pictures—where would I get those? Mom wasn’t exactly the type to snap photos of special moments. I knew there was one box of pictures that existed somewhere, but I didn’t know where to find them.

I brought up the subject on a Saturday morning when Dave was sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the patio door while drinking his coffee.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning.”

“I have to do a school assignment.”

“Okay, get to it,” he said, still staring outside.

“No. I mean I have a school assignment that I need help with. It’s something I can’t do without your help. It’s ... it’s sort of impossible for me to do on my own.”

Dave swung around to look at me. I stared down toward my feet, embarrassed that my voice had wavered.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

I blurted it all out in what felt like one breath. “I just, I have to do a project on my family history. It’s worth twenty-five per cent of my final mark this year and I need to write a story and include photos and a family tree. How big would my tree be—one branch? I don’t have any pictures of myself as a baby.” I gasped at the end as I held back my tears. “I don’t even know my real dad ... I don’t have a family.”

“Hey now, hey, it’s okay,” Dave said as he placed his coffee mug on the table. “You have a family, Mel Belle. You have me and your sister. And your mom—I know she’s not around, but she’s still your family. She’ll always be your mom.”

“You’re Jesse’s dad, not mine. How do I even include you in a family tree when we’re not related by blood?”

Dave paused for a second. “Why don’t you get a pencil and some paper and we’ll sketch this out together.”

I exhaled, dragging my feet as I went upstairs to my room. I gathered two freshly sharpened pencils, an eraser and a couple of pieces of plain white paper. I brought them back downstairs and sat down at the table with Dave. Beside him was Jesse, who had joined us to eat a bowl of cereal.

“So,” he said. “I’m no artist, but if we’re going to do a tree, then I say we pick a strong and sturdy one. Something that lasts during tough times. A survivor.”

“A palm tree,” Jesse said. Dave laughed. “A Christmas tree,” she said.

“Stop it, Jesse,” I said.

She made a face at me and took in a mouthful of Froot Loops.

“Let’s pick something that’s for all seasons, maybe,” Dave said.

“What about a maple tree,” I said.

“Great choice,” Dave said. He sketched the base of the trunk in light grey, outlining the branches and shading them in with the pencil. “This is our background, our base. At the top, let’s write your name.” He wrote in large, block letters: Melanie Forsythe’s Family. “Okay, we’ll need to pencil in some boxes where we can add names. Let’s start with the most important person in your life.”

I looked at him and shrugged.

“That would be you, kiddo. We’re starting with you.” Dave wrote my name carefully, making sure all of the letters fit neatly inside the box. “Okay, now, above you we have two boxes for your mom and your dad. Dave sketched the two boxes that were connected with a line between them. He then connected mine to theirs. In the left box, he added my mom’s name, Abigail Forsythe. He tapped his pencil on the desk and looked at me when he got to my dad’s. “So . . . what do you want to call him?” Dave asked.

“I don’t know his name.”

“Yes, so, should we call him what he is? First name Biological. Last name Father.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why not? It’s your family story—it’s your history. We aren’t making it up.”

I thought about it for a few seconds. “Okay, fine.”

“Great.” He filled in the box, carefully crossing the “t” and dotting each “i.”

“Okay, now, your grandparents.”

“But we don’t even know who my dad is.”

“Your maternal grandparents,” he said.

Dave drew two boxes above my mother’s name and filled in Bill Forsythe followed by Irene Forsythe. Dave connected the boxes, drawing a line between my grandparents and then one linking them to my mother.

“Fantastic. Now we get to the fun part—me and Jess.”

“Now it’s going to get weird.”

“You’re weird, kiddo,” Dave said, trying to get a laugh out of me. I didn’t laugh; I sat there waiting to see what he was going to do next.

“Well, Melanie,” Dave said, sketching a box beside Mom for him and one underneath them for Jess.

I studied the boxes, following the lines that connected them all.

“There’s no link between us,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You have a link with Jesse, who’s your actual daughter, and I’m linked to Jesse and Mom. But you and I aren’t connected in the tree even though you’re actually my most connected family member.”

Dave took a minute to think about it, grabbing his eraser. He sat for a second then put the eraser down, raising his eyebrows.

“Got it,” he said.

Starting with his name, Dave made a dotted line, diagonally linking himself to me.

“You see?” he asked. “It shows that, while we’re not biologically related, we’re still family. You’re still my little girl. And, here, I’m adding the same kind of line between me and your mom. We weren’t even married, but we’re still connected.”

I looked at the tree and smiled. The dotted lines connected all of us, together. “So we’re still family?”

“We are,” he said. “Of course we are.”

“It’s perfect.”

“Now, this is my rough draft. You need to do your own. But use this as a guide and do your thing with all your colours and your photos and I’m sure you’ll get your A plus.”

“And the pictures,” I said.

“Oh yes. Those are in the basement.”

“Are there any baby pictures?”

“You’ll have to take a look. Your mother left everything behind.”

I leaned over and gave him a hug, a real one meant for a real dad.

About Dotted Lines:

Dotted Lines (Guernica Editions, October 1, 2024) is a powerful and binary-breaking story that explores the complexities of families, bringing to brilliant light the vital but underrepresented perspective of a non-traditional family where the step-parent is the hero, and it’s the person who owes you nothing that gives you everything.

Abandoned as a child, Melanie Forsythe seeks stability and belonging after her mom’s boyfriend is left to raise her. Despite her raw deal, Melanie grows up to have a good head on her shoulders and a strong bond with her stepdad. But her dream of having a family of her own is shattered when she suffers tragedy and betrayal. Still, the relationship with her step-dad—the one that’s illustrated with a dotted line in her family tree—ultimately inspires her to create the life and family she wants.

About Stephanie Cesca:

Stephanie Cesca was born and raised in Toronto, where she lives with her husband and three children. A former newspaper editor in both Canada and Europe, she holds an English degree from Western University, a journalism degree from Toronto Metropolitan University and a Certificate of Creative Writing from the University of Toronto School of Continuing Studies. Her work has been shortlisted for the Penguin Random House Canada Student Award for Fiction and The Marina Nemat Award for Creative Writing. Dotted Lines is her first novel.