For twenty-two years, I underestimated my father. The man who fell asleep during movies, who still used a flip phone, who thought “Google it” was rude. I cringed at his dad jokes and outdated views, never imagining the depth of love hidden beneath his quiet exterior.
At graduation, when he unexpectedly took the microphone, I prepared to die of embarrassment. Instead, I learned more about my father in three minutes than I had in two decades.
His trembling hands held a speech he’d clearly practiced. He spoke about watching me grow smarter than he’d ever been, about his secret tears of pride, about how my achievements were everything he’d hoped for when he first held me. The man I’d thought emotionally stunted laid his heart bare before hundreds of strangers.
Later, when I unfolded his gift – a GED certificate dated just weeks before – I finally understood. My education had been his life’s work. While I resented his awkwardness, he’d been quietly marveling at my potential. That night, I stopped seeing an old man and saw instead the young father who’d given up everything to give me more.
