I grew up thinking life was ordinary—
country‑club weekends,
Cowboys games on Sundays,
backstage passes handed over like spare change.
Not wealth, not excess,
just the air we breathed
without knowing it was rare.
My father never said the word privilege.
He said be ready.
He said learn.
He said the world won’t always be kind,
and he made sure my mind
would be stronger than whatever came for us.
College prep at thirteen,
books stacked like stepping stones,
a quiet architecture of hope
he never named out loud.
Summer camps and private schools—
not for show,
but for building.
He didn’t talk about dreams.
He built foundations under my feet.
He said it was up to me,
to become what I will be.
And I didn’t always follow his lead.
Sometimes I rose.
Sometimes I fell.
Sometimes I walked straight into the fire
because I thought I knew better.
And more than once,
he pulled me out—
rescued me from myself
with a steadiness I assumed
every father carried.
I know better now.
Not all fathers do that.
Not all fathers stay.
I really should thank him for all of it.
Oh—
I already am.
In the quiet,
in the daily,
in the unspoken way
he taught me long before I understood.
All these years later,
roles reversed,
time having its say—
I find myself thanking him
in the only real way that matters.
Not speeches.
Not sentiment.
Not confessions.
Just presence.
Just care, and the giving.
Just the steady hands
that lift him the way he once lifted me—
as a child, physically,
as a man, in more ways than I can say.
Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved
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