315. Dad Crush Today

He had softer hands now. More gray. Slower to get up from the floor after playing with the dog.

The crush peaked the summer I was sixteen. We drove to the lake, just the two of us, after Mom took my sister to flute camp. I remember watching him navigate the boat onto the trailer—backing the truck down the ramp with one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the passenger seat, turning his head to look behind him. The sun caught the gray at his temples. He was just backing up a trailer , but to me, it was a masterclass in competence.

I kissed his forehead. He stirred, mumbled, “Love you, kid.” 315. Dad Crush

It started, as these things often do, with a hammer.

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. He had softer hands now

And in that moment, I felt it: the crush. Not as desire. Not as romance. But as a kind of gravitational pull. The realization that this man—flawed, tired, sometimes grumpy, always trying—had built a world inside of me before I even had words for it.

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 crush peaked the summer I was sixteen

Let me be clear: this isn’t that kind of story. There’s no Freudian punchline, no scandal. It’s something quieter, and in its own way, more devastating.

That was it. The warmth of his palm. The smell of sawdust and his faded flannel shirt. The quiet confidence of his voice saying, “You’ve got this.”

And I crushed, just a little, all over again.

And I thought: Oh. There it is. Entry #315.