I sat next to him on the wheel. I was happy. It was the second time in a row that he drove me to the place where I’d be working, which is a two-hour drive, to and back.
The first time was yesterday, for a final interview.
Yesterday and today summed up were probably the most I’ve ever talked with my dad for the last few years. Not that we grew apart; somehow, the time to talk to him, just the two of us, never came. I used to be a daddy’s girl, but times are different now. I am twenty and he is in his mid-fifties. Being close and affectionate to him seemed to grow more and more difficult — and awkward — as we aged.
I was really happy and grateful for the opportunity to feel like the little girl I once was, daddy’s little girl. Somehow, sitting there, I felt the special bond between us, one that even after years of no proper conversation hasn’t tainted. I savored every second of that two-hour drive, knowing times like this no longer come by often.
I love my dad. He is simply awesome in his own way. We may not get along all the time, there may be times when I think I hate him — but he’ll always be my dad.
And I’ll always be daddy’s little girl. That part of me will never change.