My earliest memories of Dad were his steel-toe boots by the door, his orange vest over a chair, and his rough hands tucking me into bed.
“Then I’m taking it home.”
He had been studying engineering when I was born. Then Mom left for groceries one Tuesday and never returned.
Dad left college the next week, borrowed a hard hat, and raised me in the same tiny apartment.
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Money stayed tight. Dad glued his boots, stretched dinners, and once split his only sandwich after I caught him pretending he’d eaten.
Whenever I asked why he worked so much, he kissed my head. “Because you’re worth every sore muscle, Daddy’s Bug.”
Dad left college the next week.
I promised him a home, a vacation, and quiet Sundays.
Then cancer took him eight months after his diagnosis.
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