My Father: My Favorite Story

Age 5 

“Please please please please.” I grip the edges of the book, attempting to pull it out of Dad’s grasp. “Please just read one more chapter.” 

    We are on the second book of the Harry Potter series. “Kitty kat, it’s late.” 

    “But you’ll be gone for a whole week.” 

    “You know, you’re allowed to read while I’m gone.” 

    “But it’s not the same.” I cross my arms and pout. “I can’t do the voices like you do.” 

    “I’ll tell you what…” He tucks me under a pink-flowered comforter, places my stuffed sheep by my head. “I don’t have to leave until nine o’clock tomorrow. What do you say, if you’re up by eight, we can read a chapter before I leave?” 

    I nod and wiggle further into my blankets. My favorite storytimes are right before Dad leaves, when he flops onto my bed in a suit, smelling of cologne, and says one last goodbye before he hops in the car.

    “But now, it is time for my daughter to go to bed,” he says in the raspy, wise voice of Dumbledore. He flicks off the lilac lamp on my nightstand, leaving only a sliver of amber light from my cracked doorway. “Say your prayers.” 

    “NowIlaymedowntosleep-” 

    “No, no. Don’t rush. Think about what you’re saying.” 

    “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. May angels watch me through the night, and wake me in the morning light.” 

    “Amen,” we say in unison.

    “Eight o’clock.” I hold out my pinky. 

    “Eight o’clock.” He grabs my pinky with his, a solemn promise, and kisses the top of my head. “Love you, kitty.” 

Age 8

On weekends when Dad is home, he takes me to the baseball diamond outside my elementary school. He calls it “skill-building,” which I know to be code for telling me we’ll play baseball, hit golf balls, and get ice cream as a distraction from the fact that the true purpose of our outing is for me to learn how to ride a bike.

    As I sprint around the diamond, touching each base and pumping my fists in the air, Dad dumps our baseball equipment and a golf bag with several miniature clubs onto the grass. He holds the handles of my bike, with its Disney princess basket attached to the front, to keep it upright. “First thing’s first, kitty.” 

    “Do I have to?” 

    “Yes.” 

    “But I don’t like the bike.” 

    “But you have to learn how to ride it.” 

    “But why?” 

    “Because all eight year olds know how to ride a bike.” 

    “But you always tell me not to do things just because everyone else does them.” 

    “Yeah, but I also tell you that it’s weird when third graders don’t know how to ride a bike.” 

    “No you don’t.” 

    “Just get on the bike.” 

    “But I’ll fall.” 

    “No you won’t. I’ll make sure you don’t fall.” 

    I swing one leg over the plastic pink seat. Dad keeps a tight grip on the back of the seat as I begin to pedal around the diamond. For a moment, he jogs with the pace of my bike, keeps me from wobbling. I keep pedalling, faster and faster, but when I turn around to smile at Dad, he’s standing at the opposite edge of the diamond. 

    “Daddy!” The bike topples to the ground, and I land on my back, elbows scraping the dirt. “You said you wouldn’t let me fall!” 

    “I didn’t let you fall. You fell on your own.” He sticks out his hand and pulls me up. “But here’s a lesson for you, kitty kat. Falling is part of learning.”

Age 10

Dad travels for about half the year. He makes sales presentations to customers around the world, which keeps him on an active schedule. He has been to every continent but Antarctica, flying constantly to new locations as if it’s normal. “I know you think it’s super exciting to travel for work,” he tells me when I asked for stories of jungles in Africa or mystical castles in Europe. “But it’s different when you have to travel for work. I don’t really see much.”

    Despite his often being gone, he never misses a single important event in my life. Even if he spends two weeks in China and must fly to Australia immediately afterwards, he makes the time to come home for a piano recital, a birthday party, an awards ceremony, and puts me to bed before leaving again. 

    When he leaves for the airport early in the morning, he sneaks into my room to readjust my blankets, kiss my forehead, leave me a note reading “I’ll be home soon!” 

    Sometimes I beat him to it and leave notes of my own. Good morning Daddy. I’m sad you have to go. Please call while you’re gone so I can tell you about school. Mom gets bored much easier than you do. Love you. 

    I leave a pencil for him to reply. He writes on the back of the note, Love your humor, kitty. You’re a chip off the old block. I’ll call as much as I can. Love you.

Age 12

“Promise me you’ll listen to the whole thing?” I load a slideshow presentation on our clunky desktop. My dad sits on a black swivel chair pulled back against the wall, while I stand beside the computer, pushing my shoulders back to appear more confident, like he taught me.

    “Promise.”

    “Alright, then I present…” I click to the first slide. “Why You Should Allow Me to Quit Piano Lessons.” 

    He smirks at me as I present with the most grace and eloquence I’ve ever spoken with, following a strict outline of my strongest points, ending with a counter-offer of self-teaching rather than paid lessons with a rude teacher from whom I desperately sought escape. “That is all. Thank you for your time.” 

    “Nice, kitty. Now can I tell you something?” 

    “Sure.” 

    “In this family, we don’t quit.”

    “But I’m-” 

    “I know you have your problems with lessons right now, but think about how happy you’ll be that you have that skill for the rest of your life.” 

    “I guess so.” 

    “And the skill becomes more valuable the harder you have to work for it. Understand?” 

    “Fine.” 

    “Alright.” He stands up and places a hand on my shoulder. “Now go practice.”

Age 15

“So…” Dad sits across from me, folding his hands on the kitchen table. “Tell me about this boy.” 

    “Daaaaaad.” 

    “Oh, come on. Your mom gets to know but I don’t get to know? Are you hiding something?” 

    “No, I just didn’t think you’d be interested.” I take sips from a glass Coke bottle. Dad and I agree that it tastes best in glass bottles. “Besides, it was just one date. There’s not much to tell.” 

    “Is he good enough for my daughter? That’s what I wanna know.” He leans across the counter to take a swig from my Coke. “I don’t want you going out with some nerd.” 

    “I know, Daddy. That’d be horrible, for me to date someone smart and sweet.” 

    “You’re exactly right. I already have the perfect guy made for you.” 

    “Yeah? What’s he like?” 

    “Tall and blonde, so I’ll have good-looking grandchildren. A doctor who makes good money. That way, you can take care of your poor old dad in my old age.” 

    “Well, you’ll be happy to know that this guy is a brunette, not particularly tall, and doesn’t know what he wants to do yet, but it definitely won’t be medical.”

    He shakes his head in mock disgust. “I expected better from you.” 

    “Sorry. I’ll try harder next time.”

    He gets up and opens the fridge, pulling out chicken breasts to let them thaw on the countertop. “What did you guys do on this date?” 

    “We just hung out at his house. Went swimming in their lake. His stepdad made us dinner.” 

    “What dinner?” 

    “Just burgers.” 

    “Burgers?” He snaps into focus, eyes wide. “Were they good?” 

    “Pretty good.” 

    “But not as good as my burgers, right?” 

    “Never.” 

    “Good.” He crosses his arms, narrows his eyes. “Well, you just let that boy know that if he ever messes with my daughter, I’ve got a rifle in the basement. And… and you let his stepdad know that no one can out-burger me.”

Age 17 

“What’s it gonna be, kid?” Dad drums his fingers against the steering wheel as I flip through college pamphlets. I only had a few schools in mind, but Dad pushed me around to every booth at the college fair, encouraging awkward small talk about student activities and financial packages. “What major are you looking at? Pre-law maybe? I always thought you’d be a good lawyer.” 

    “Well, actually…” 

    “Or you could always do something like dentistry. Or-”

    “I wanna be an English major.” 

    “English?” He lingers at the stop sign before us. “What are you gonna do with an English major?” 

    “Well… write? I want to write books.” 

    “Well… alright.” He pulls into our driveway. “I know you’re a good writer, but… can you make a living from that?” 

    “If I work hard enough.” 

    “You’re right.” 

    Later that night, as I perch at the end of the couch, notebook in hand, scribbling a diary entry about which colleges are at the top of my list, Dad comes behind me and rubs my shoulders. “I’m proud of you, kitty kat.” 

Age 20 

I haul a duffel bag full of dirty clothes into the house, a backpack stuffed with homework slung over my shoulder. “I’M HOME!” 

    “Hey, kiddo.” Dad squishes his hands into a bowl of ground beef, mixing it with bits of bacon and chunks of cheddar cheese. “Hope you wanted burgers.” 

    “I always want burgers.” 

    “How goes the learning?” 

    “Great!” I grab a Coke from the fridge. Mom always stocks them before I come home for breaks. 

    “How’s that book coming?” 

    “Slowly, but it’ll come eventually. I’m mostly just writing for class right now. I’ve been writing about you in my memoir class.” 

    “Oh yeah?” 

    “Yeah. My class loves you. You’re their favorite character in my stories.” 

    “Good. I’d expect nothing less.” 

    After dinner, I hand him copies of my personal essays, watch tears spring to the corners of his eyes as he reads them. When he’s finished, he repeats to me my favorite words: “I’m proud of you.” 

    Really, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.