On Valentine’s Day morning, I opened my dresser drawer and pulled out a shiny red scarf covered in tiny white hearts—a Valentine’s Day present from Dad when I was just a girl. I closed my eyes and tied the frayed scarf around my neck. Though it had been more than 10 years since Dad passed away, I missed him more than ever.
I dug out an old scrapbook filled with yellowed notes in Dad’s characteristic uppercase print. “Have a good day at school!” I read. “Your math homework was perfect, except for one little decimal point!” “Will pick you up as usual at 6:45.”
Dad wrote me a note each and every day of my childhood. Though he left for work before I awakened in the morning, a reminder of his love was always waiting for me on the kitchen table, no matter what.
The familiar handwriting was like a warm embrace. Anytime I missed Dad all I had to do was open up my scrapbook of special valentines. Dad’s love was always waiting there for me inside.
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