Father’s Day always feels different than Mother’s Day for me.
My dad and I loved each other, but our relationship wasn’t simple.
For much of my life, I never quite felt like I was good enough for him. Looking back now, I think those feelings belonged more to me than they did to him, but when you’re young, it’s hard to know the difference.
My parents had a rocky marriage. There were times when my mom would leave, and my brother and I would stay with Dad until they found their way back to each other. We moved often because Dad believed in working for himself and was always chasing the next opportunity. Sometimes we had very little. Sometimes we had plenty.
It wasn’t a stable way to grow up, but maybe it helped shape the person I became. I’ve had friends with money and friends without it. I’ve seen both abundance and scarcity. Because of that, I’ve never been very impressed by what people own.
What I remember most is that my parents were generous. Even when they didn’t have much, they found ways to help other people.
When I was a child, I was often sick. High fevers. Convulsions. Doctor visits.
One of the stories I learned as I got older happened when I was nine years old.
I was running a dangerously high fever when I began convulsing. Dad was eating dinner. The moment he realized what was happening, he threw his plate down, food scattering across the floor. He picked me up, carried me to the shower, and ran cold water over me to bring my temperature down.
Then he rushed me to the doctor.
The two of us arrived soaked.
I don’t remember any of it. My first memory is waking up in the doctor’s office with nurses gathered around me. But I later learned that he thought he might lose me that day.
As an adult, he showed up the same way. More than once, when I needed him, he dropped everything and came.
Before he became sick, he called me almost every day. If I hadn’t called my parents, he would call me.
After he passed away, my husband told me something I had never known. At some point after we were married, my dad pulled him aside and talked to him about taking care of me.
I was surprised when I heard that story.
It wasn’t something I would have expected him to do, which somehow makes it even more meaningful.
He wasn’t a man who liked to have important conversations over the phone. If something mattered, he wanted to talk face to face.
A few days after he died, I had a dream.
In the dream, he told me he was going to heaven and that he had seen it. But before he could go, he needed to know that my mom, my brother, and I were okay.
Maybe it was only a dream.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that it felt exactly like the kind of conversation he would have wanted to have in person.
These days, when I think about my dad, I don’t think as much about whether I was good enough.
I think about all the ways he showed up.
I think about a man who thought he might lose his daughter.
I think about someone who dropped everything when he was needed.
I think about daily phone calls.
I think about a quiet conversation with my husband that I never knew happened.
And I think about a love that was often shown more than spoken.
Looking back now, I know something I couldn’t always see then.
The stories tell a different story than the one I told myself.
My dad loved me all along.
I miss you, Daddy.
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