It had always been just the two of us—my dad and me. My mother died the day I was born. I never knew her smile, her voice, or the way her presence could fill a room.
From the very first moment I entered the world, it was just Dad—Johnny—standing between me and everything unknown, everything scary. He became everything at once: mother, father, guardian, and best friend.
Dad had this quiet, unshakable way of showing love. He packed my lunches every morning before leaving for work, sometimes waking up at 5:30 a.m. just to make sure I had a sandwich, a fruit, and a note tucked into my lunchbox—little messages like, “You’re going to do amazing today,” or “Don’t forget to smile, sweetheart.”
Sundays were sacred. He never missed making pancakes. He had a routine, a rhythm to life that made our small home feel safe, even when the world outside wasn’t.
