For Brian

Dad,
I don’t remember the plane ride—
just that one day,
my world changed languages,
and your hand was there to hold.
No questions asked.
No answers needed.

You made space for a girl
with a different last name
and stories she couldn’t translate yet.
You read my silences
like bedtime stories,
patient with my storms,
gentle with my walls.

You pushed my first bike,
then watched me drive off alone.
You waited in hospital chairs
while I fought shadows
you couldn’t see—
but still stayed.

We learned together—
how to spell new beginnings,
how to fail and try again,
how to dream bigger
than trauma ever taught me.

You stood cheering in every crowd:
for the GED,
for that bachelor’s degree,
for that master’s degree
I once thought belonged to someone else’s child.

Now, we sip coffee on Sundays,
our quiet routine—
a soft reminder that love
doesn’t have to be loud to be strong.

You are my compass,
my calm in the storm,
my reason to believe
that love can be chosen
and still be real.

Dad,
I love you—
in all the ways I didn’t know how to say
when I was eight,
and in every word I’ve learned since.