I mean, I get it: he is my father and so Daddy is going to be an absolute gentleman to his little girl—make me feel special and protected and respected and loved, in that order, at all times. It is what he does. What’s he’s always done. And it never, ever gets old.
Still, as a grown woman with two daughters of my own, I notice it more—his opening the car door and building doors, too. How he gently leads me by the elbow when I’m tottering on my highest stiletto, and how he pulls out the chair and slides it close to the backs of my knees when I sit at a table. With him, I buy nothing. I don’t pump my own gas. Car trouble is his worry, not mine. And when I announce a want out loud, Daddy makes it happen in double time. Nothing outrageous. For example, just last week while visiting my father, I pushed “send” on my 22nd book and announced, “We need to celebrate—where’s the chocolate?” And within a half hour, the man produced a chocolate cake.
I love him with abandon.
He loves me the same.
This makes me giddy. It also makes me extremely sad and a wee bit unnerved. I’ll explain: My father is from a generation that believes in being gentlemanly.