My father never fit the dad mold. At school events, teachers mistook him for my grandfather. He couldn’t name my favorite bands or understand my homework, but he could tell when I’d skipped breakfast by the sound of my footsteps.
I spent years wishing for a different father – one who’d help with science projects instead of just nodding along. One who didn’t embarrass me by asking cashiers about their families. One who wasn’t always so… old.
Then he stood at my graduation and shattered every assumption I’d ever made. His halting speech revealed a man who’d been paying closer attention than I realized. Who kept every report card. Who cried over my college acceptance letter alone in his room. Who saw my life as the fulfillment of his own cut-short dreams.
The GED certificate he’d earned that spring – his first academic achievement at 72 – now hangs framed beside mine. Where I once saw embarrassment, I now see extraordinary love. Where I saw limitation, I now see quiet determination. My diploma represents knowledge gained; his represents a lifetime of love finally spoken aloud.
