Father’s Day, in my mind, was supposed to be simple.
A stack of slightly burnt pancakes. A handmade card heavy with glue and glitter. A sticky hug from my five-year-old daughter, Lily. Maybe a quiet evening afterward if I was lucky.
But life tends to ignore our scripts. And sometimes the biggest shift doesn’t arrive with shouting or slammed doors. It comes in a small, careful voice from the back seat of the car, holding a purple crayon and coloring outside the lines.
That’s how it happened for me.
