I was watching a reel about a 5-year-old boy, fighting back tears while his father showered him with words of affirmation. His father was expressing to his son just how much the little boy was loved and cherished. The little boy’s face was a blend of emotions – shifting between a proud smile to fighting back tears. His parents shared that their son was clearly an empath, even at his young age, deeply sensitive and attuned to the emotions around him. The story concluded with a poignant message from the journalist, emphasizing how essential it is to hear the words “I love you” from a loved one, regardless of age or life stage.
The story took me back to my own childhood and the realization that I never once heard those three words. Not from my father anyway. Now, before you get all crazy on me, wipe that look of pity off your face, because I say that without any resentment or bitterness whatsoever; it was simply the way he was. My dad just couldn’t bring himself to say those words – not to me, not to my brothers, and, as I later discovered, not even to Mom. It was there in his heart, but he just couldn’t put it into syllables.
To be honest, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between my father and his kids. So, when we did get it, it was memorable. Did we feel unloved? Absolutely not. Maybe Mom filled in the gaps, or maybe we just understood that Dad was simply…being Dad. In his defense, he married at 40 and came from parents who treated affection like a rare treasure – something to keep hidden rather than put on display.
He was considered an older parent by the time kids came along. I remember Mom saying that Dad often joked, “Now I get why they say to have your kids when you’re young.” When Dad came home from work, he didn’t bolt outside to toss a baseball with his sons. He was tired. He wanted to relax, enjoy his one Pabst Blue Ribbon, have dinner, and settle into his favorite chair.
Later in the evening, we’d hear the comforting sound of the popcorn popper on the stove, always accompanied by a tall glass of lemonade. That nightly ritual was an unspoken “I love you” from Mom to Dad.
It was most likely during a kitchen conversation with Mom regarding Dad’s inability to say those 3 cherished words, that I made a silent vow to myself. On my wedding day, I would find the courage to tell Dad I loved him. Maybe I hoped to hear those words echoed back, or maybe I just didn’t want to carry the regret of him leaving this earth without ever hearing them from me.
I was nineteen. Practically a toddler wearing mascara. My wedding day bloomed into one of the happiest days of my life…until it didn’t. Standing at the church doors, arm in arm with Dad, I felt ready. I was in glowing bride mode, until I looked up and saw all our family and friends gathered for our big event. In an instant, I became an emotional mess.
This was my moment. I turned to Dad, ready to say the “I love you” I vowed I would say on my wedding day. But there he was – with a proud smile that had the emotional weight of an “I love you,” without him actually saying it. Before I could open my mouth, Dad leaned in and whispered, “You sure look perty.” That compliment broke me. My eyes welled up. My nose started to run, and there I was, clutching my father’s arm with one hand and gripping my bouquet with the other. I felt completely helpless, sniffing away, pretending I had it all together. Even if I had a tissue at my disposal, having a veil covering my face (a sure sign of the times), would have made nose blowing an impossible task.
It was now or never – the opportunity I had waited years for. The vow I made to myself echoing in my head. But instead of telling my father “I love you,” I said what any mature, loving daughter would say after hearing her father say he thought she looked “perty” – two vile, little words came spilling out of my mouth… SHUT UP!
Truly, I blew my oath that day, not to my husband, but to myself. The words I had promised to say, never left my lips. Dad had derailed me with his quiet, heartfelt compliment. And I reciprocated with all the poise of a hormonal raccoon.
I remember visiting Mom and Dad at my old family home where the popcorn never missed a night. I’d sit at the organ and start playing Fascination, Dad’s favorite tune. It became our quiet little game: I’d play and wait to see how long it took him to notice. It never took long. From the other room I’d hear his signature cue: “Ah, there it is.” Occasionally, he’d get up from his chair, walk into the living room, and stand beside me while I played. No words exchanged, just shared breath and melody. That was our version of “I love you,” woven into the notes.
During my school years, I played both basketball and softball and my dad was always present at my games. Even in HS, seeing mom and dad’s face in the crowd was comforting and an inspiration to play my best.
Saturday evenings, Dad and I enjoyed watching the horror flicks after the 10pm news. We’d have popcorn, as dad never went a night without it. Dad always had claims on the rocker, while I laid on the hide-a-bed. Yep – the same one my brothers rolled me up in.
As I write this, something nudged me to glance at the calendar. July 8th. I kid you not. It’s my dad’s birthday. Coincidence? Not a chance. He would’ve been 106 today. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone for 35 years now. I have classmates who still have at least one parent alive, and sometimes I do feel a flicker of envy – like I’ve been robbed of years that could’ve been.
My brothers and I have been orphans for 25 years now, but here’s the strange gift wrapped in our grief: we never had to make the heartbreaking decision to place a parent in a nursing home or witness the fog of dementia steal their recognition of us. We didn’t have to watch their bodies suffer slowly. And for that, I am deeply grateful.
Dad and I never exchanged the words “I love you.” And oddly enough, I have no regrets. His love didn’t need to be spelled out. It lived in presence, popcorn, and late-night monster movies. It showed up at my basketball games and softball fields, and in the friendly chaos of Twixt tournaments with my brothers.
I learned to love my coffee with creamer and sugar most likely because I’d take a sip from his cup every morning. When Father’s Day rolled around, we’d laugh because before we asked what he could use, we knew the answer. A new belt. Had to be brown. And maybe some new white T-shirts. V-neck, not crew.
When my time on this earth comes to a close and I take that quiet step into the next chapter, I know Dad will be there, one of the first to greet me. He’ll be waiting with that same steady warmth, maybe a pipe tucked in the corner of his mouth. No baby this time. When I run to embrace him, he’ll call me his “Lisa Bisa,” and we’ll share an Eskimo kiss.
And if there’s a welcome pizza party in the works? Let’s just pray they don’t send dad out to fetch it. Because he’ll come flying in with that box wedged under his arm, vertically of course, toppings cascading like melted confetti. Right beside him, there’ll be Mom, arms folded, rolling her eyes as she lets out that timeless sigh: “Oh, Dick!”
Let’s end with a toast. Grab your favorite cocktail. Tonight, I’ll be sipping a Seagram’s 7, one of dad’s favorites. Raise your glass high: Here’s to love felt, even when it’s not spoken. And here’s hoping that on the other side, he’s been instructed on the proper way to transport a pizza box.
Happy birthday, Dad. Tonight, I toast to all the quiet ways you made loud memories for me. I LOVE YOU! Cheers.”
