If love had a face, it would look like yours. Tired eyes that never missed a moment, calloused hands that held too much, a heart that made space for both roles when the world asked too much of you.
You didn’t just raise me, you carried me through a storm you never asked for. When Mom passed, the world changed in ways we couldn’t name. But somehow, in the wreckage, you stood up and became both the anchor and the sail. You didn’t have a guidebook for grief or a blueprint for raising a daughter alone, but you did it with a strength that was quiet and constant. You never flinched.
You braided my hair with trembling fingers.
You showed up to every cheer competition, screaming louder than any other parent in the stands.
You cooked dinners, helped with homework, made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.
You made sure I never felt the emptiness you carried. And somehow, in the absence, you built presence. A love so big it filled the whole house. A laughter so loud it echoed through the lonely parts.
You were selfless when it would’ve been easier not to be.
Kind even when the world was unkind.
Dedicated in ways most people will never see.
And funny… God, thank you for the funny. The way you made space for joy when we needed it most.
I don’t know how you did it.
But because of you, I know what strength looks like.
Because of you, I know that love doesn’t always look like two people, it can look like one person doing everything they can, with everything they have, for someone they love.
You were both my mother and my father. You still are. And on this Father’s Day, I hope you feel what I’ve always known:
You were never “just enough.”
You were everything.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
You are, and always will be, my first home.
Still Becoming 