Dad dad,

I knew your love before I knew myself, before I had ever opened my eyes and learned of the world I was born into. Encased in warmth, I kicked at the sound of your voice, the pressure of your hand, any vague reminder that you were there, patiently waiting for me to make my debut. You always wanted a girl (or so I’ve heard).

I came on a Monday, three days late. You’d tell me how long it took for me to start crying, how I waited for just the right day to come (three is your lucky number after all), and how attached I was to you. Mom said I was difficult. I refused to sleep in my crib, demanding, screaming to be held by you. You’d prop yourself against the wall, sleeping intermittently to make sure you didn’t drop me. I was difficult, but you never called me that. Even as the shadows under your eyes became darker and your workday a little more sluggish, your patience with me never wavered. You rocked me to bed every night, gently humming Bob Carlisle’s “Butterfly Kisses.”

My memories don’t reach this far, but photos do. Pages upon pages of my hand tightly held in yours, big smiles plastered on our faces. Never mind the loving relatives I’d grown up around, you were my number one. I was your princess, your little girl.

• • • 

I was in kindergarten when you made rainbows dance on the walls. You’d beckon to me and Courtnie, whispering for us to meet you in our bedroom and draw the curtains tight. You’d hide a flashlight and a crystal behind your back, turning off the lights and telling us to close our eyes. We blinked and colorful droplets of light littered the walls of our once-plain bedroom. As rainbows filled the room, we imagined we were somewhere exciting and extraterrestrial, dancing amongst the stars. 

You indulgently fed our wild imaginations. You made us signs, added furniture, and played whatever role we assigned to you. We turned the porch into a kingdom, an apothecary, a school, and anything else we could come up with. 

We pretended the porch steps were a portal, one that we could cross into “Gilda,” a realm of our own design with a different language and social order. We pulled you away from your garden and fish tanks to paint us a sign. You were one of the best artists we knew. 

“G-I-L-D-A, Daddy,” we spelled out, leaning over your shoulder as you dipped your brush into some leftover paint. 

“How’s that?” you asked, holding the slab of wood at arm’s length, just like you would a fine art piece. 

“Perfect!” we cried, immediately waving you over to place it in just the right spot. 

You never told us to go back inside, never said we were too old to play pretend, you let us delight in the worlds of our own making. 

You made the dentist less scary. There hardly seemed to be a visit where a cavity wasn’t found to be filled or a tooth to be extracted. You held our squirming ankles, giving an encouraging squeeze. And when we got home, tucking our baby teeth under our pillows, you invited the Tooth Fairy in, cracking open the window so she might replace our teeth with gold coins. I like to think she really does exist. Because for all the time that’s passed, I still haven’t been able to figure out how you managed to do it. 

Whatever characters we became during the day—adventurers, spies, fairies, witches––we still needed you to tuck us in and kiss us goodnight. So without fail, we knocked against the bedroom wall, wordlessly asking you to come from the living room to wish us sweet dreams. 

• • •

You were never quiet. Where your words failed, your music continued. As soon as we started piano lessons in second grade, Richard Clayderman and Mozart accompanied our drives to school, imploring us to close our eyes and listen close. ABBA greeted us when we came home, escorting us around an invisible dance floor. Bob Carlisle fluffed our pillows, sending us off to bed with “butterfly kisses.” And Billy Joel reminded us to take risks, make our own decisions, and trust in ourselves.

You always said more through your playlists. You played music that said exactly what you wanted to say, no matter if that was in French, Vietnamese, or English. You taught us to appreciate art, emotion, and beauty regardless of the language. You heard more than I ever could, pointing out invisible scenes, words that meant more than what they appeared on paper. 

You and Mom always told us you loved us. Ông bà ngoại and ông bà nội rarely said it to the two of you, and you never wanted my sister and me to feel the same way. Your parenting wasn’t perfect; I often felt unheard or listened to, but you did all you could with what you were given, putting us first always. However many times you said “I love you,” though, it always meant more when you’d sing it to us. 

“I knew I loved you before I met you,” you sang, opening your arms up for a hug as you entered the playroom. 

“Did you really?” I asked, looking up from your arms. It didn’t quite make sense to me, how could you love someone before you even knew them? 

“Of course,” you said, before launching into a story about Mom’s pregnancy and the way I kicked just for you. 

There was something about the off-tempo, sporadic lyrics that felt like so much more. Maybe it was the special smile you reserved for a good song, the softer edge to your gaze, or just how much I liked the song. I’d laugh and continue singing with you; the Savage Garden was one of our favorites.

• • •

You and Mom switched. I can’t pinpoint when, but you got busier. You started waking up later. Half an hour, then an hour, then too late to get us to school on time. Our backpacks went into Mom’s van instead of your black sedan a few mornings in a row and then every morning after that. Lobo and KOST 103.5 played in the car now. I’d look up to the rearview mirror to find red lips and sunglasses instead of tanned wrinkles and coiffed hair. The cup holder held a venti caramel macchiato now in place of a large iced black coffee. 

When Mom first started taking us to school, you walked us to the car, closing our doors and tracing funny faces into the foggy windows. You’d wave from the front door before ducking back inside to start getting ready for work. 

After a while, you’d meet us on the couch, hugging goodbye to the ringing of the New York Stock Exchange opening bell. You were on a fast track to promotions and I was starting middle school. We were busy. You had more clients, more responsibilities, and more momentum than before, while I had more homework, more classes, and more practices than I knew what to do with. 

I’d still knock against the wall, mostly out of habit, partially hoping I could see you for more than a passing greeting. Sometimes I would work. You’d come to say goodnight, giving me a quick hug before going to bed yourself. I can’t remember when I stopped knocking against the wall or if you just stopped coming, but I do remember missing you. I stayed up too late now and you slept too early. There wasn’t enough time in the day or maybe we just didn’t make enough.

• • •

I couldn’t remember the last time we had a real conversation, the last time we had gone further than just a “Hi, how was your day.” We took meals separately; I ate at 7:00 PM with Courtnie and you ate at 9:00 PM in your home office. We went full days completely missing each other. I left for school before you got up in the morning and went to bed before you came home from a client dinner. But we never did anything about it, instead making excuses of work and school to distract from how distanced we’d become. 

I tried to forget about the relationship we used to have, focus on school and remind myself that I’d grown up. It was okay that you didn’t know my favorite color anymore, that I didn’t know when you started painting again. After all, fathers and daughters weren’t meant to be that close for long. On nights when I tossed and turned, though, I’d stare up at the ceiling, squinting to look for the rainbows that had once dotted the popcorned surface. I wished I could knock against the wall again, get another hug and kiss goodnight, and tell you everything on my mind. 

I’d wish things could be as simple as they were when I was five. When my problems were as small as I was and you could fix anything and everything with a soothing hand and a couple minutes of Modern Talking. But then I’d roll my eyes when you ruffled my hair and sang too loud or called me a little girl. Maybe it was my fault we weren’t as close as we used to be. But who could blame me? I wasn’t six anymore, I was sixteen and all grown up.

• • •

We were stuck together. It wasn’t easy to ignore each other when you worked out of the garage and I took classes at the dining table. When I thought our relationship had just run its course, we started talking again. I started to talk to you, really, truly talk to you. Life was too precious, too short to push you away for no real reason. 

So we traded car rides for morning walks and secrets at bedtime for talks about work or college. You’d tell me your plans to let go of an employee, and I’d tell you about how nervous I was to go off on my own next year. You became my confidant again. 

I realized how similar we really were. I took my coffee black, just like you, and shared your love for science and the human body. Instead of solving my problems with quick solutions, you worked through all my fears and anxiety with me. You shared times when you felt exactly how I did and told me about the bad decisions you’d made and everything you learned from them. You weren’t some impermeable, perfect person like you were when I was little, but this was better. As we took deep breaths of morning air and picked up new flowers to propagate, we got reacquainted. I didn’t need to be tucked in anymore, but I lived for your wake-up call.

• • •

You didn’t drive me to the airport. You refused to move me in, leaving Mom and Courtnie to handle the huge bags of clothing and knick-knacks. You’d already seen my school once, you told me, but the shake in your voice betrayed you. I knew what you were really saying. If you came, you wouldn’t be able to leave. If you had to drop us off, it wouldn’t be safe for you to drive back. 

You told me once that you gave me space in high school so I’d have an easier time leaving for college. You told me that’s exactly what ông nội did for you. I thought it was a stupid tradition. Because despite all your best efforts, there was no way I could leave you as easily as you wanted me to.

“Don’t be a stranger,” you said thickly, “study hard.” I ignored my quickly dampening mask and nodded into your shoulder, squeezing you even tighter. 

“Okay,” I choked out, wondering how this was supposed to be normal, how I expected myself to just move away. Somehow I never imagined that committing to a school across the country meant that I would actually have to move all the way there. 

I waved to you all the way down the driveway, and as our house slowly disappeared from sight, I realized that I wouldn’t be home that afternoon or any afternoon for a while. 

I don’t call often (at your insistence), but you’re always available. You encouraged me to change my major, suggested how I should structure my class schedule (you were once a biochemistry major too), and sent pictures of the puppies or the new things you were growing. You were the first person I called when I got my midterm grades back and the only one who understood how excited I felt after palpating a gangrenous toe. I still miss you, but when I have my black coffee in the morning or when Bob Carlisle comes on, I’m reminded of how much of you is in me. We may not always be in the same zip code anymore, but I know I’ll always be your little girl.