When My Dad Says, “I Love You”
My take on a different kind of love
I don’t remember being anything but terrified as a little girl.
My dad was a firefighter, and he was big and strong. But just like walking into a burning building, I felt like being near him could become life-threatening and explosive at any time.
He talks about how cute I was when I’d walk into preschool like I just knew everyone was excited to see me. There was a mirror on my side in the main room where he could see me from his side.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember his admiration or love when I was little. I do remember walking on my tiptoes around him and trying my best not to make him mad.
I felt his absence more than he’ll ever dare to understand.
My parents divorced when I was twelve years old. He lived about forty minutes away with his new wife and her son. I saw him less and less over the years. He didn’t come to any of my dance recitals or my high school graduation.
He had a co-worker whose daughter went to the same college as me, and the two of them decided to take their daughters to lunch one day. I walked towards him with a friend on either side — a redhead and a brunette.
