What I remember first — the very first image that comes to mind — is my father brushing my hair every morning, getting me ready for day care. His hands were always careful, his attention focused. In those early mornings, he wasn’t just my dad — he was my caregiver, my protector, my world.

Then came the time he left for officers’ training. OTC. Boot camp. I didn’t understand what that meant, only that he was gone, and I was devastated. It felt like forever. When we visited, it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same. The warmth had changed — not gone, but buried under something sterner, more rigid. He had shifted, and even though I couldn’t name it at the time, I felt the weight of that difference. The fun, the gentleness — they weren’t as easy to reach in him anymore.

I don’t know when it happened, but there was a time I hated my dad. I don’t remember the reasons. I just remember the feeling — sharp, fiery. I wrote about it in my diary, used words like “asshole” or maybe even “son of a bitch.” I think my mom read that entry once. She tried to talk to me about it. I just told her I hated him. I don’t think I explained why. I don’t think I could.

I remember Sundays. My dad used to drive the church bus, getting up early to head to the church and prepare for it. He left without me, even though I desperately wanted to ride with the other church kids. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed. Mom and I always ended up there eventually, but still — that moment of being left behind stuck with me.

As a teenager, I saw a different side of my father: the provider. He worked long hours, especially during tax season. He’d skip church, come home late. My mom was often irritated by him pouring so much of himself into work. But he always made sure we had what we needed. No matter how tired, no matter how stretched thin, he provided.

I remember the day he was paying property taxes. He told me he had to pay for me to go to two schools — the Christian school and the public one. I didn’t understand at first, but I could hear the strain in his voice. The frustration. So I made a choice. I started going to public school. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want him to have to carry that burden. I don’t know if I ever told him that’s why.

And still — for all of it — I always told my friends that my dad might come across like a bear, big and growling and stern. But really? He was a big ol’ teddy bear. Underneath the rugged exterior was still the man who used to brush my hair every morning, who got me ready for day care, who — whether he knew how to show it or not — loved me deeply.