315. Dad Crush (2027)

The Dad Crush never really goes away. It just changes shape. It becomes less about idolizing him and more about forgiving him. Less about wanting him to be perfect, and more about being grateful that he stayed—hammer in hand, flannel soft, ready to guide one more swing.

Not a metaphorical hammer of realization, but an actual, honest-to-god, rubber-grip Stanley hammer. I was fifteen, helping my dad build a birdhouse—a lopsided, condemned-looking thing that no self-respecting sparrow would ever nest in. He handed me the hammer, wrapped my fingers around the rubber grip, and then placed his hand over mine to guide the first swing. 315. Dad Crush

The crush faded, as crushes do. By seventeen, I was annoyed by his dad jokes. By eighteen, I was embarrassed by his old sneakers. By twenty, I was gone to college, calling home once a week, keeping him on speaker while I scrolled my phone. The Dad Crush never really goes away

It started, as these things often do, with a hammer. Less about wanting him to be perfect, and

But last Christmas, I came home late. He was asleep on the couch, the TV murmuring an old Western, his reading glasses still on his face. I pulled the blanket up to his chin, and for a second, I just looked at him.