Okay, so if you saw my post from last week titled “Oh Daddy,” you know I had a moment. A full-on, 32-year-old woman, standing in her childhood bedroom, sobbing into a throw pillow because my dad fixed my squeaky closet door without me asking.
He doesn’t say hello. He just looks at me and says, “Pop the hood.” oh daddy part 2
Part 1 was the closet door. Part 2 is the serpentine belt. Part 3 will be the leaky faucet I don’t even know about yet. Part 47 will be him showing up to fix the porch light at my first house. These aren’t moments. They’re a language. Okay, so if you saw my post from
And that’s when it hit me. This wasn’t about the car. This was Part 2 . He just looks at me and says, “Pop the hood
I tried to thank him. I got all teary and said, “Dad, you really didn’t have to—”
He’s holding a 200-piece mechanic’s tool set, a jug of windshield wiper fluid, and a gallon of milk from the grocery store “because he passed by and remembered I was out.”
I was wrong.