Well, I’m a day late, but I figured what the heck.

I think the ultimate test of being a man is fatherhood. This is not to say that men who don’t have kids are wimpy or anything…not at all. But fathers…fathers have to be strong, patient, gentle, firm, consistent and kind. They have to lead by example. They have to teach, protect, shelter, comfort, encourage and lay down the law. And they have to do it every day, rain or shine, tired or rested, sick or healthy. Every day for the rest of their lives.

In honor of Father’s Day, I’d like to tell you about the fathers in my life, okay? It’s sappy, but in the best ways, I hope.

My husband. Ah, McIrish. You guys have heard about him, of course, and he loves when I tease him on this blog. But here’s something you don’t know. Screaming children don’t bother him a bit. He can calm any baby, no matter how colicky. Despite a neck injury he sustained at a fire, he still gives piggy-back rides, lifeguards at pool parties, builds forts in the woods. When our son was born ten weeks early and I was too sick to see him, McIrish stood by our little guy in the neonatal unit, talked to him, told him he was doing great, tickled his feet and called him “buddy.” He adores our daughter and always seems a little stunned that so lovely a creature as she is somehow his little girl. There’s a saying…the best thing a man can do for his children is love their mother. McIrish lives this every day.

My grandfather,  Jules Kristan. Poppy, as he was called, was simply the best man I ever met. He recently died at the age of 92. Married for 67 years to his childhood sweetheart, father of 9, grandfather of 28, great-grandfather to 26 and counting, Poppy was kind, intelligent, even-tempered, loving, even if the words “I love you” were difficult for him to say. Every time he saw a new grandchild or great-grandchild, he’d get tears in his eyes. Never in all my life did I hear him say anything unkind about anyone. Never. Not even once!

My neighbor, Hank Robinson. Hank will do anything for anyone. He stepped in as a grandfather for my own kids, taught my son to make paper airplanes, hugs my daughter. He’s one of the few men I know who can state his feelings: “I’m so proud of you,” he’ll say to me, my kids, his kids, his grandchildren. “I love you.” Hank has no trouble with affection—he is a cuddly bear of a man, and my kids adore him. And so do I.

My grandfather, Kyle Higgins. Pop-pop was the type of grandfather who’d toss you into the air, squirt you with the hose, sneak you extra desserts, take you for rides in his convertible and let you steer (eep!). He married my grandmother and adopted my father when my dad was 10 years old and never once used the word “stepson.” He thought we three Higlets were perfect. He died when I was eighteen; just before, I went to visit him in the hospital, and even though he couldn’t speak at the time, he called the nurse over and wrote something down. “My granddaughter.” He was so proud of us, loved us so completely, thought we were the best things ever. Everyone should have a grandfather like that.

My father, Ed Higgins. My dad died when I was 23, but his life was full nonetheless. Dad taught me to believe in myself, told me I could do anything I wanted—President, astronaut, and yes, writer. He was handsome, confident and a big softy. Once, when I was little, my mom demanded that he give me a spanking (well deserved, I assure you). Instead, Dad took me into another room, clapped his hands and told me to whimper. Mom bought it. My father bought me a horse for my 11th birthday, came to all my recitals and plays during high school, sent me to a wonderful college and would pop in on me unexpectedly and take me out for a fabulous dinner, maybe buy me some clothes or something cool for my dorm room.

More than anything, my father taught me that I was enough. No matter what, I could always count on myself…I was smart enough, brave enough, good enough. And, in his eyes, anyway, much more than enough. To him, my brother, sister and I were simply the best.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day, Poppy and Pop-pop, Hank and McIrish.

To the dads who walk the walk of a good man—let me just say this. Those heroes we romance authors write—they should look awfully familiar.