You don’t like to say, “I love you.” You don’t enjoy hugs or cheek kisses. You don’t like to call or talk for very long. You don’t like the mushy, lovey-dovey, father and child relationship, and that’s okay, because there are thousands of ways that I know you still care for me.

When I was six and you yelled at me for riding my bike off of your property and I got hurt, that’s how I knew you cared if I got injured.

When I was seven and you saw me looking at my brothers ride their four-wheelers, and then decided I needed a small one of my own, that’s how I knew you cared about me being included.

When I was eight and you would tape "Saturday Night Live" on VHS for me because you knew how much I loved to watch it, that’s how I knew you cared about me having a good time when I was at your house.

When I was nine and I asked you if you would come to my Christmas concert and you said yes, even though I knew you would have a terrible time, that’s how I knew you cared about what I was up to.

When I was ten and you would always challenge me to a good game of HORSE on the basketball court, and then crush me to oblivion, that’s how I knew you cared about teaching me to think I should never just be handed things.

When I was 16 and you said, “Hey, bring your car over so I can change your oil,” that’s how I knew you cared about whether I was safe or not on the road.

When I was 17 and you called me to ask if I wanted to go to a football game with you the next day, that’s how I knew you cared about spending time with me.

When I was 18 and you showed up to my final musical in high school, that’s how I knew you cared about my feelings towards what I cared about.

When I graduated high school and you asked me multiple times a month to come over and help you mow the lawn, even when I did a terrible job, I knew you cared about me working hard and trying again until I could get it right.

When I left home for college and you gave me a first-aid kit and tool box, that’s how I knew you cared about me taking care of myself when you wouldn’t be around anymore to help.

And now, when I’m in class, and I see you call me but I can’t pick up, and you leave a voicemail that just says, “Just called to see what’s up. You don’t have to call back, it’s not important,” that’s when I know you care about where I’m at in my life.

I may have never been called your “little girl,” and I may have never gotten to go to a father daughter dance with you, or had you help me on a science project or build a birdhouse, it’s all okay. That stuff never bothered me. Helping you fix the lawn mower, or put bricks in potholes, or make homemade pizza was all the father-daughter time I needed to know that you love me, and that even though you never really knew how to take care of a little, whiny, talkative girl, you still succeeded at being a great dad in every way possible.