Shape of a Father

 Father's Day has always felt like a room with two doors.

One I still peek through, hoping memory will answer.

The other, I walked into unexpectedly, only to find that love has a peculiar way of introducing itself.

I've learned that fatherhood has never belonged solely to biology.

In quiet consistency.

In showing up.

In staying.

There are men whose absence shaped me.

And there are men whose presence stitched parts of me back together.

Both have left fingerprints on the woman I am becoming.

One gave me roots.

The other reminded me I could still grow.

What I deserve, and how to be loved.

Victories I wish could have been witnessed.

Versions of me that never got introduced.

Grief is strange like that.

It doesn't always ask to be noticed.

Sometimes it simply sits beside celebration, smiling through watery eyes.

And somehow, love makes room for both.

Today, I think of the men who father quietly.

The ones who never asked for recognition.

Who offered guidance before opinions.

Who protected before they were expected to.

Who loved without demanding ownership.

The men who understand that being a father and being fatherly are sometimes two different callings.

To the man whose name I still carry in stories, thank you.

To the man who carried pieces of me when he didn't have to, thank you.

Neither sentence takes away from the other.

Love has never worked like subtraction.

It simply learns how to make room.

So today, I celebrate fathers.

The ones who are remembered.

The ones who are present.

The ones who stepped in.

The ones who stayed.

The ones who taught us that sometimes the strongest form of love is consistency.

And so, Happy Father's Day. To the men who stay and lead, and love.

May the men who choose to love well never underestimate what that love becomes years later; we see your efforts, and we appreciate you.

To my Daddy,

With the utmost love and fondness.