I need to text my dad. Thank him times eleventy million for this great gift. My dad. What a guy. My eyes burn a little thinking about what an awesome father I have, that he gave me this present at the perfect time and now I’m here instead of sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself.
I need to do better. I need to be a better daughter and do something to make him proud, to show him that I am as amazing as he raised me to be. When he was my age and found himself strapped with a mewling infant and a vanishing wife who left nothing but a lipstick-smeared note written on a cigarette pack, “Sorry, I can’t do it. You’ll be great,” with no phone number or forwarding address, he didn’t cave. He dropped out of medical school and reenrolled in nursing courses. During a time when men were laughed at
