Dad, why do you always eat last?”
He smiled: “Because watching you eat is my favorite part of the meal.”
… I didn’t realize he was still hungry until I found his lunchbox half-empty in the car. He gave me his sandwich again.

I asked him once, “Dad, what’s your dream car?”
He patted his 15-year-old pickup: “This one. Got you to school, soccer, college… and back home every time you needed me.”

I found his old toolbox. Under a wrench was a folded note I wrote in 2nd grade: “Dad U R My Hero.”
Worn. Faded. Kept for 20 years.
He never told me he kept it.

“Dad, you snore.”
“Yep. And you still sleep safe because of it.”
Turns out, his snoring was the lullaby that told me, “I’m here. You’re okay.”

When I got my first paycheck, I bought him a watch.
He wore it every day — even when it broke.
Years later, I found it in his drawer.
Still set to the time I gave it to him.

I yelled at him in high school. Said he didn’t understand.
He just nodded. Said, “One day you will.”
Now I’m a dad.
And I finally do.

He worked double shifts so I could take piano lessons.
Never heard me play. Always “stuck at work.”
Years later, I found his timecards.
He left early every Thursday… just to sit in the car and listen.

He let me win at chess until I was 12.
Then he beat me — gently.
Said, “Life won’t let you win forever. But I’ll always be here to play again.”

At my wedding, he danced with my mom.
Then whispered to me: “Take care of her. Like I tried to with yours.”
I didn’t know he saw his younger self in me… until that moment.

He never cried. Not even at funerals.
Until the day I held my newborn.
He held that baby, tears rolling, and whispered:
“Now you’ll know what I felt… the first time I held you.”