“You got me!” I would scream and clap.
“Yes, you, Michelle, and we’re so lucky.” He would end with a bear hug and another kiss to my forehead.
Years passed and my father never missed a night, even when I thought he should have. After my basketball team was defeated, he came into my room.
“Michelle, of all the basketball players in the whole wide world,” he paused.
“Yes, Daddy?” I stared at the floor.
“How did your mom and I get so lucky to get the best one?”
“You didn’t.”
“Of course we did, Michelle. We have you.”
“But, Dad . . .”
“Yes, you, Michelle, and we’re so lucky,” he cheered, as he gave me a high five followed by a bear hug and a kiss to my forehead.
I thought becoming a teenager would end the ritual, but it didn’t.
“Michelle, of all the teenagers in the whole wide world . . .” he would pause.
“Dad, I’m too old for this,” I would sigh.
“How did your mother and I get so lucky to get the best one?”
“C’mon, Dad,” I grunted.
“We have you, Michelle, and we’re so lucky.” Then the embarrassing hug and kiss.
Following college, I became engaged. My father never missed a night to call or leave a message reminding me how special I was to him. I even wondered if he would continue calling after I got married, but he didn’t.
The daily calls I had taken for granted all my life ended the day he died from cancer, only weeks before my wedding.
I deeply missed sharing the day with my father. Standing behind the white church doors with my arm in my brother’s, I waited for the wedding march to begin. Before we began our descent down the aisle, my brother reached inside his pocket and handed me an ivory napkin embroidered with pink ribbon. Inscribed were the words:
Of all the precious wives in the whole wide world, how did Mark get so lucky to marry the best one? He married you, Michelle, and he is so lucky! I am so proud of you, my little girl.
Love,
Dad
Without a doubt, it was the best wedding gift I received. One I would never forget. My father showered me with his gifts every day of his life. How did I get so lucky?
Michelle Marullo
The Unconditional Step
I didn’t just marry their mother. She had two young teenage daughters whom I loved dearly. For several years, I watched them grow from little girls into beautiful young ladies. We got along great, but I worried that things would change once I married their mom.
Having never been married before with no children of my own, I was concerned about taking on the role of “father.” I read several articles on the subject—all contradicting one another and leaving me nothing but confused. I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision on just “what” to be to the girls. Luckily I didn’t have to—they made that decision for me.
Something wonderful happened. Without any encouragement from my wife or myself, the girls began to call me “Dad.” Such a simple word, but an unfamiliar one that filled my heart with even more love for these amazing girls. By them reaching out, I realized that they needed a dad in their lives. And so the decision was made—I would be “Dad.”
Several years passed and we made it through life with no major catastrophes. My marriage to their mother was a happy one and I was delighted that the girls and I had a strong relationship.
The older of the two, Veneta, was now eighteen and legally old enough to make her own decisions—and a big one she made!
On my birthday she presented me with a beautiful frame. This wasn’t a picture or a piece of art, but a legal document protected by a beautiful casing. Veneta had given me the most precious gift—she had changed her last name to mine.
She told me that something was missing when she heard her name being called at her high school graduation. “It wasn’t my father’s name,” she explained.
She continued by promising that the next time I was in a room where her name was announced, that it would be mine. “Everyone will know you’re my dad.”
I know grown men aren’t supposed to cry, but I’ll admit I did that day. This wasn’t the last time she would make me cry.
Veneta graduated college, and along the way fell in love with a great guy who would become her husband.
After months of planning, the big day arrived and I would walk her down the aisle. I couldn’t have been more proud of my daughter, who looked radiant.
As the music started, Veneta took my arm. “Are you ready, Dad?” she asked with poise.
I looked at her, trying to smile but feeling like I needed to cry. My quivering lips struggled with a humble, “Yes.”
I kissed the top of her head—right through the veil— smiled and walked her proudly down the aisle. The ceremony was perfect.
At the reception, I heard the DJ announce the infamous father-daughter dance. Dancing not being one of my better attributes, I became consumed with nervousness. Scared to death, I put on a brave face, took my daughter’s hand and led her to the empty dance floor.
While preparing to relax by taking a deep breath, I noticed someone hand Veneta a microphone and something in a frame. Another framed gift? Is this déjà vu? Not knowing what she was up to, Veneta kissed me on the cheek and stepped back. In front of everyone, she began to read a touching poem she wrote about our relationship. She called it “Something Special,” and something special it was.
As she continued, I tried to block out everyone around us so I could just listen to her. Tears filled my eyes when I heard her voice quiver:
“Daddy, it is because of you and your love that I have the confidence and courage to stand here today as Mrs. Jeremy Veneta Novakovich Leonard. I hope that as you look upon me at this moment, it is with the same pride and unconditional love that I have always felt for you. As I begin my new life as Jeremy’s wife, I hope you will continue to hold my hand ‘in your heart,’ offer me your guidance and advice, and continue to be my best friend. I will always be your little girl—and in your heart is where I always want to be. I am proud to be your daughter.”
Mrs. Veneta Novakovich Leonard—always a Novakovich, I thought.
When my daughter finished, I thought about her promise to me years before. Hearing my name next to her new name took away all my insecurities from the past.
Then she took my hand for our father-daughter dance, and I suddenly realized that my fear of dancing had disappeared. As we swayed to the music with Veneta in my arms, she laid her head on my chest in a childlike manner. I told her I loved her and she simply replied, “I love you, too, Daddy.”
Donald R. Novakovich
Bedtime Fears
He has no hope who never had a fear.
William Cowper
When I was a little girl, say four or five years old, there were many things that frightened me: Snakes, bugs, big older boys and storms. I remember the dark, rainy nights when a thunderstorm would roll into town and wake me from a sleep, in my childhood room at the front end of the house.
The rain would beat on my window as shadows played games on my bedroom walls. Tree branches screeched against the outside of the house making strange noises. I’d lay there, so afraid, nearly ready to cry. Poking my little foot out from under the covers, I’d slide out of my warm bed and tiptoe quietly into the next room where my mother and daddy slept.
And then, as I had done so many times before, I would crawl over the foot board at the bottom of the bed and make my way over the top of the covers between my mom and dad, looking for a secure place to lay my head between their two pillows.
Dad would roll over and say, “Hey, little girl, what’s going on?”
“I’m afraid in my room. It’s storming.”
Then without another word, the three of us would snuggle close together and go back to sleep. Just my mom and my dad . . . and me.
Morning would come, the sun shining. A new day would begin
.
When I was a grown-up girl, not quite twenty years old, there were many things that still frightened me: School, jobs, big older boys and getting married. I remember the days leading up to my wedding day. Parties, planning and packing for the honeymoon. Writing thank-you notes. Ironing my veil and cleaning out my closet for the last time. Last-minute lists. The rehearsal dinner.
It was finally here—the night before my wedding day. I went to bed, tired. Very tired from all the weeks of preparation.
I lay there, so afraid, nearly ready to cry. Poking my foot out from under the covers, I slid out of my warm bed and tiptoed quietly into the next room where my mother and daddy slept.
And then, as I had done so many times before, I crawled over the foot board at the bottom of the bed and made my way over the top of the covers between my mom and dad, looking for a secure place to lay my head between their two pillows.
Dad rolled over and said, “Hey, little girl, what’s going on?”
“I’m afraid in my room. I’m getting married tomorrow.”
Then without another word, the three of us snuggled close together and went back to sleep. Just my mom and my dad . . . and me.
Morning came, the sun shining. A new day in my life was beginning.
Charlotte Lanham
Going Home
Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up.
Joseph Barth
“Is everything okay?” Tim asks as we drive through the night’s heavy rain.
“I’m fine,” I say, staring out my window. “Just tired from the plane ride.” The November downpour outside is a harsh contrast to the warm beaches we enjoyed all week on our honeymoon.
“If you want,” he begins slowly, “we can probably stay with your mom and dad.”
“No, that’s okay!” I say quickly, half smiling. I turn to look at our backseat, piled with the wedding gifts we had picked up from my parents’ house. The drive to our new apartment to spend the night for the first time is lonely.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks again.
I look at him carefully and I can picture him in his black tux at our wedding. I see us running hand-in-hand to our car while a row of guests on each side tosses tiny leaves into the air. I pass my parents without looking back.
“I just feel different,” I say aloud.
Suddenly, I see my young self. I’m graduating from high school and picking a university 1,500 miles from home, not telling my parents until after making my first tuition payment. A year later, I don’t have a dime for my tuition, but somehow manage without a single terrified call home. My junior year, I tell my parents about my boyfriend, Tim— whom I’d already been dating a year and a half.
Reflecting back, it’s all clear now.
I wanted to do everything on my own and assumed my parents would accept and support the changes. But my independent spirit told me they would always be waiting when I decided to come back.
“You know,” I tell Tim, my throat tightening, “up until a week ago I’ve always lived with my parents. I could leave home to do what I had to do, and then come back whenever I wanted.” The reality of what I’m saying chokes me. “But now I can’t go back to live in my house—I have to grow up!”
With surprise, I feel tears spilling down my face. In between sobs, I hear Tim dialing his cell phone.
“Hello, it’s Tim. Can I speak to Mrs. Gomez?” A pause. “Hi, Mrs. Gomez. No, we’re fine, but I think someone needs to talk to you.” He puts the phone by my ear, and before I can think, I whimper, “It’s just different, that’s all.”
Mom already knows.
“Don’t cry!” she says, her timid voice unusually strong. “Don’t you know I already prayed to God to give me the strength to let you go?” I wipe my eyes as her soothing voice explains, “That’s just life, but it’s all going to be all right.”
She talks to me for a long time, and when I finally say good-bye to her, I’m no longer crying, just sleepy.
Thinking back at that first night in our new apartment, I smile. As I slept next to Tim, surrounded by boxes and empty rooms, I could not possibly know how easily and without notice I would begin to call our new place “home.”
I sleep peacefully now, knowing I can leave and come back and everything will be all right, because I am always home.
Liza G. Maakestad
Angie’s Wedding Day
A mother laughs our laughter,
Sheds our tears,
Returns our love,
Fears our fears.
She lives our joys,
Cares our cares,
And all our hopes and dreams she shares.
Julia Summers
Dawn is just beginning to show her soft pink face. My bedroom is dark except for a silvery wisp of light stretching a shadow across the floor. I’m awake, have been for a long while, consumed with details and anticipation. Edging quietly from the bed, so as not to disturb my aging mother, who snores contentedly, I tread barefoot on the cold tile of the hall and peek in on my sleeping company.
Aunt Nell and Uncle Mac curl together on the sofa bed, spoon fashion, while their baby granddaughter snuggles deep in Nell’s arms. Five children—nieces, nephews and cousins all under the age of ten—are sprawled across the floor. Gently moving an arm here, a leg there, I cover them with warm quilts. Heading back up the hall, I pause to adjust the thermostat to offset the chilly October morning.
I pad down the hall and listen carefully at my daughter’s door. My angel, my baby, my little girl. I want to see her in her buttercup-yellow bedroom, surrounded by childhood toys and record albums. I don’t want her to grow up, but today she will.
Today is Angie’s wedding day.
I grasp the cool doorknob, turn it gently and step quietly into her room where the pre-dawn light gives the room a luminous glow. One dainty foot protrudes from the blanket’s edge; the rest of her is shrouded in covers, mummy style. Removing the pillow from over her head, I smile. Dark curls tumble and sooty eyelashes lie gently on her creamy skin. I caress her rosy cheek and nudge an errant lock lying across her eyes as she stirs slightly.
“Wake up, baby,” I coo, settling myself down beside her. A slow smile spreads across her face then reaches her chocolate eyes as they flutter and focus on mine.
Angie struggles against twisted bed covers, gives a deep yawn and props herself on fluffy pillows. “Mama,” she whispers, “I was dreaming about the time you taught me to dive into that pool in Ft. Lauderdale, the summer I turned seven.” We laugh, for her words bring the moment immediately to mind. “Remember, how I kept saying, ‘I can’t do it’?”
“Yes, but you kept on trying.”
“I was so tired, my eyes burned, but I had to get it right.”
“Well, Angie, you are my determined little girl.”
“Just like you, Mama,” she giggled.
“Yes,” I smile back, “just like me.” We hug each other tightly.
We speak of silly things, tender things, things that spark memories of the past and ramble through eighteen years of her life. Despite my wish to hold it back, the morning sneaks in to light her room . . . and all that’s in it: Small posters with “This is my mess” and “A teen lives here” printed in her schoolgirl hand; a Dothan High victory banner waving from across the room; her doll collection dancing across the headboard; ridiculous hats and teen magazines; visible proof of her happy childhood; snapshot souvenirs within my heart.
Watching me eye the remnants of her youth, Angie sighs. “I should’ve packed this junk away by now, you know. But it just doesn’t seem to belong anywhere else. I’m afraid my kid stuff will be out of place in our new apartment.”
I hear the tears in her voice and can’t help hugging her closer.
“Do I have to move them right away?” A sob catches her words; I know she is crying.
“Of course not,” I say, determined to soothe her worry. “You don’t have to move anything until you’re ready.”
She
turns, takes my face in her small hands, and looks me straight in the eyes, “I love you, Mama, and I’m sure gonna miss you. But please, let’s not change my room for a little while, okay? I need to know that sometimes, if I want to, I can be your little girl again.” Angie’s voice cracks and she leans her head on my trembling shoulders.
“Angie, you can leave your things here as long as you want, but you don’t need to look at things to know you will always be my little girl.”
We talk some, cry some, hug some—then laugh at our silliness. And before we know it, we start crying all over again. Long before either of us is ready, the rest of the household stirs and we know our private time is ending.
As I leave her room, I realize I’m not losing my little girl. She is changing and will continue to do so for the rest of her life. But—woman or child—she will always be mine, and our relationship will only grow.
As for today, I’m kind of hopeful she’ll need me—at least as much as I need her.
Judith Givens
“Please excuse my mother, Reverend. She always was a bit possessive!”
Reprinted by permission of Dan Rosandich.
The Music Played On
Youth fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall;
A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
I stood on the sidelines and watched, unable and unwilling to take my eyes off him. He held her close and they danced under the moonlight to the rhythm of the song. The chill of the night wind brushed my hair while something damp ran down my cheeks. The cool breath of another breeze told me I was feeling my own tears. Were they sad tears or happy tears? I wasn’t sure. My heart stirred with a mixture of emotion.
Why can’t I let him go? I wondered.
I remembered the first time I held him. Our love was indescribable. Binding and strong. Each passing year gave me events to remember as well as memories to cherish. But now I had to stand back and simply watch their love in action. And there was absolutely nothing I could do, even if I wanted to.