on October 15, 2026
My dad was never good at saying things.
“I love you” was not something I heard growing up.
Neither was “I miss you.”
He wasn’t much of a hugger, either.
When I was younger, this bothered me more than I ever told him.
I had friends whose fathers hugged them goodbye, called them sweetheart, told them how proud they were.
Sometimes I wondered why those things seemed so easy for other dads.
And so hard for mine.
But if my bike broke, Dad would notice.
I’d leave it in the garage, and by morning, it would be fixed.
If it was raining after school, I knew what his car looked like from half a block away.
And on cold mornings, he never asked if I needed a jacket.
He would just hold it out to me.
“Put this on. It’s cold.”
That was Dad.
Practical.
Quiet.
Never more words than necessary.
For a long time, I thought there was something missing between us.
I just didn’t know what to call it.
Years later, Dad began moving more slowly.
One evening, near dusk, he walked out to the bench in the front yard.
I followed him.
I remember looking at him from behind and thinking how strange it was that I hadn’t noticed when he became so thin.
His shoulders looked smaller.
His steps were careful now.
For some reason, that hurt to see.
He sat down and looked up at me.
His lips moved.
He was trying to say something.
Maybe my name.
I waited.
The words wouldn’t come.
He tried again, then gave up and smiled.
I knew that smile.
Then he lifted one hand and patted the empty space beside him.
Come sit.
He didn’t have to say it.
I sat down.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I reached over and took his hand.
It startled me how light it felt in mine.
I looked down at his fingers and suddenly remembered another hand.
The same one, decades earlier.
Wrapped around mine at a crosswalk.
Back then, his hand had seemed enormous.
Strong enough to pull me back from the curb.
Strong enough that I never thought to be afraid when I was holding it.
Now my hand was the one wrapped around his.
I had to look away for a moment.
And sitting there beside him, I started remembering things I hadn’t thought about in years.
A bicycle waiting for me, fixed.
His car appearing through the rain.
A coat held out before I could say I was cold.
His hand reaching for mine before we crossed a street.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing anyone would put in a love letter.
Just Dad.
For years, I had thought my father never said, “I love you.”
Sitting beside him that evening, I realized I had been wrong.
He had said it hundreds of times.
I just kept waiting for it to sound like words.
I squeezed his hand.
He looked over at me.
Neither of us said anything.
And for once, I didn’t need us to.
The light faded.
His hand stayed in mine.
And I finally understood the man I had spent so many years wishing would say more.
Some people say love out loud.
My father spent a lifetime showing me where to find it.
Some words had become difficult for him to say.
But he still remembered to save a place for me beside him.
For the Maylina in your heart.