And I crushed, just a little, all over again.
I kissed his forehead. He stirred, mumbled, “Love you, kid.” 315. Dad Crush
That was it. The warmth of his palm. The smell of sawdust and his faded flannel shirt. The quiet confidence of his voice saying, “You’ve got this.” And I crushed, just a little, all over again
The Dad Crush never really goes away. It just changes shape. It becomes less about idolizing him and more about forgiving him. Less about wanting him to be perfect, and more about being grateful that he stayed—hammer in hand, flannel soft, ready to guide one more swing. The warmth of his palm
But last Christmas, I came home late. He was asleep on the couch, the TV murmuring an old Western, his reading glasses still on his face. I pulled the blanket up to his chin, and for a second, I just looked at him.