A few days ago, feeling overwhelmed with the things that have been happening over the past week or so, I realized how terribly alone I felt. I had no one to hold me, only text messages from friends who were trying to comfort me from distances away. They did a lovely job, but there is only so much words can do. And even though I didn’t have anyone to hold me, I had the strange urge to text someone.
“Daddy, I hate boys.”
“Y is that”
“Because I said so.”
“Y is that.”
“Because they are dumb.”
“Did a boy u like hurt u?”
“A few boys, yeah.”
“Well then they are dumb and don’t deserve u.”
“I know, but it still hurts.”
“U will find someone. No boy will ever truly deserve u, but be patient. U can’t fall in love with every boy u like. Ur special. Don’t forget that.”
My father has never been one to share a deep connection with people, even his children and wife. Our relationship has consisted of him being my soccer coach, my golf instructor, the guy who sends me racist, sexist, and political jokes/cartoons via email or phone, and the guy I can rant to about how Ziva and DiNozzo need to get together already on NCIS. But for some reason on that particular day, I decided to reveal a little bit of my heart ache to him, and he decided to be a father.
For just a moment, I was a little girl running to her daddy about how someone broke her heart.