315. Dad Crush 💯 Extended

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

A Dad Crush, entry #315 in my mental catalog, is that specific, aching admiration you have for a parent before you understand the difference between love and longing. It’s the phase where your father becomes the benchmark for every man you’ll ever meet. He laughs, and you think, That’s what laughter should sound like. He fixes the garbage disposal, grease on his forearms, and you think, That is what safety looks like. 315. Dad Crush

He had softer hands now. More gray. Slower to get up from the floor after playing with the dog. And I crushed, just a little, all over again

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.” He laughs, and you think, That’s what laughter

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.

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.