I was halfway to bed when an idea stopped me in my tracks. Without a second thought, I hurried into the living room where my parents were watching television. "Dad," I said, "I want to write a book about fathers. I want to discover how they shaped their children the way you shaped me."

He looked up with his familiar warm face, as if I had just walked in with the most important news in the world. He said he loved it. He said I should do it.

Two years later, he was gone.

Grief has its own timeline. For years I couldn't return to the idea because it lived too close to the loss. I spent that time trying to be strong for my mother and brothers, and somewhere in that effort forgot to grieve myself.

Eventually I did something that surprised everyone, including me — I walked away from a successful career, moved halfway across the world, and spent a season selling ice cream from a bicycle in Amsterdam. For the first time, I had space to simply miss him.

When I came home, I knew something had shifted. The sadness had begun to make room for gratitude. The memories that once brought only tears became the ones I most wanted to celebrate.

And that is when I finally understood what this project was really asking of me.

This book began as a tribute to fathers. And it still is. But somewhere along the way I understood that fatherhood is not defined by biology. It is defined by the mark a man leaves on your life. A dear friend helped me see that.

He told me he never had the privilege of growing up with a father. His grandfather, though, had filled that role so completely that the word father belonged to him. In that quiet moment, the book expanded. It was no longer just for those with fathers. It was for everyone who had a man like that — someone who showed up, who stayed, who shaped who they became.

Fathers, yes. But also grandfathers, stepfathers, uncles, brothers, coaches, mentors, friends. Men who, through love and sacrifice and the quiet work of showing up, wove themselves into the very fabric of who we are. Men who left more than they ever knew.

This is a tribute to that inheritance. And it comes with a simple invitation:

Tell us about the man who shaped you.

Tell us about the mark he left that never fades.

Tell us his name.

Whether he is still here to read your words or whether his influence lives only in memory — let him be known. Let the world know the difference he made.

The greatest thing a man leaves is not in his estate. It is in the person standing at his grave.

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My name is Weis Sherdel and I live in Springfield, Virginia. This project is my attempt to honor my father — and to make space for you to honor the man who made you.