Because my father made sure I didn’t.
He filled every space with care.
He worked long hours—longer than most people realized—but he never let that exhaustion follow him home in a way that changed how he treated me.
Mornings started early.
I’d wake up to the sound of him in the kitchen, moving quietly so he wouldn’t disturb me, even though I was usually already awake. When I opened my lunchbox at school, there was always something extra inside.
A note.
Sometimes it was just a simple: “Have a great day.”
Other times, it was something sillier: “Remember, you’re braver than your math test.”
I kept every single one.
Even the ones written on napkins.
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