It’s Father’s Day. The sky is bright. Birds are spreading the day’s news. The first cup of coffee is already behind me. And I sit, thinking of my dad.
He’s the best man I know. The contenders aren’t slouches — but by my scorecard, he’s way ahead. Always has been.
We talk often now. It wasn’t always that way. Sometimes we were just busy. And for longer than I care to admit, we didn’t speak — because we’d fought.
But like everything before, that’s in the past. Together, we found something better. It’s called the present.
There’s formality. Respect. I watch my tone and words, as one should with a parent — with an elder.
But just past that first door of tradition is a friendship I never expected. A person who knows all of my history, even the parts we missed sharing.
When I was ready to come home, he was there.
“Spend some time here, safe in my loving arms.”
A friend wrote that. About fatherhood. It’s a lyric now, but it hits like truth. Words like that — the kind that heal and hurt at once — they stay with you. They mark the place we all come back to, even when we don’t.
Sometimes fathers are near. Sometimes not. Sometimes by choice. Sometimes by fate. Sometimes just because we’re mad at each other.
But for most of us, there’s almost nothing we can do to lose that place.
It waits. It forgives.
It wants us there.
If you’re lucky enough to be reminded of that — and take advantage of it — I hope you will.
I have been.
And my father still reminds me what matters:
Don’t say “Shut up.”
Don’t say “It’s not my fault.”
And always remind yourself:
“Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better.”
Because more than anything, that’s what they want for us:
To grow. To get better. To come home.
So here’s to the fathers who show up — even when we don’t deserve it.
I love you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.