My dad had dreamed of walking me down the aisle since I was little. Even after he got sick, he refused to give that up. Three weeks after my wedding, the photographer sent our gallery. When I reached photograph 212, I noticed my dad’s hand pressed against my husband’s jacket pocket.
My dad wanted a daughter his whole life.
He told me once that when the nurse came into the hallway and said, “It’s a girl,” he had to sit down because his knees stopped working.
Mom always rolled her eyes when he told that story, but Dad never changed a word of it.
He called me Daddy’s Girl before I could walk.
At 29, I could call him from work about a flat tire, and he’d still answer, “How’s my Daddy’s Girl?”
He started talking about my wedding when I was seven. Not because he was eager to marry me off.
Dad simply assumed that someday there would be an aisle, and if there was an aisle, he would be beside me.
When I was little, he’d sometimes take my hand and squeeze it three times.
One squeeze for each word.
“I love you.”
By the time I brought Daniel home, Dad had apparently been preparing for years.
He ironed a shirt for dinner and spent an hour pretending he hadn’t.
When Daniel later called to ask for his blessing before proposing, Dad hung up and cried in the garage for 20 minutes
He then came inside claiming he’d been looking for a wrench.
Dad liked Daniel, but what mattered more was that he watched him.
Once, after I’d had a miserable week at work.
Daniel, being Daniel, drove across town just to bring me dinner and left because I was too tired for company.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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