The sun is glistening hot and bright. I’m six years old, playing outside on an ideal summer morning. Then I see my dad’s truck, all dusty and grimy from driving the gravel roads in the dry town after going days without rain. I adored my dad so much and wanted to do something nice for him, so I drew a heart with the word “dad” inside of it on the dirty truck. I couldn’t wait for my father to come home from work and see this beautiful drawing I had made. If I knew what was to come that day, I wouldn't have chosen to draw that heart.

The day began like any other. I woke up, got myself ready, ate breakfast, watched tv, and of course, went outside because it was summer. I’m out by myself scampering around, rolling in the grass, and playing with toys. When something caught my eye, I looked over and noticed that my dad drove the car instead of his truck to work. I loved my dad more than anything and believed he was the best father I could ever ask for. I wanted to show that love, so I made a heart in the dirt on his chalky red truck. I was very proud of it. My smile was vast, and I was ecstatic until my mom came outside. That’s when her expression immediately dropped before it turned back to an insincere fake smile. 

I asked her what was wrong, and she simply told me to never draw on my dad’s truck again. She claimed that she’d clean it off before he got home, and I wasn't allowed to tell him what I had done. As a young child, I was so confused. I thought my dad would love it. Why wouldn’t he anyway? It's not like I damaged the truck in any way. My mom and I went inside to make lunch together, and she said we would clean it off when we finished eating. We were having so much fun making lunch with each other that we forgot all about the truck. I really wish we hadn't forgotten about the truck.

I went upstairs to my room to lie down for a nap and woke up to my dad screaming at my mom about his vehicle. Immediately, I vaulted out of bed and quietly crept down the stairs as quiet as a mouse. Suddenly, my dad stormed up the stairs, and I was met face-to-face with a volcano that was about to erupt. He screamed and screamed and screamed at me until tears were streaming down my petite, fragile cheeks. Then I started to comprehend why my mom wanted to wash his truck before he got home. I sprinted back up the stairs and cried until I no longer could. I had never felt more angry at my dad, sorry for my mom, or confused about why I was getting yelled at in my life. 

Even though I was young, I knew it was my job to apologize because, for some odd reason, my dad was never one to say “Sorry.” even when he was in the wrong. I gathered all the courage I could find and slowly traveled down the creaky, wooden stairs. I could hear the sound of a sports game coming from the TV in the living room and knew that's where my dad was. I go in, sit on the couch, and begin apologizing for my actions. My dad is sitting watching TV. He doesn't look, listen or acknowledge me in any way during or after my apology. I’m just about to walk away, knowing that I failed as a child because it's obvious my dad didn’t love me enough at that moment to forgive me, when all of a sudden, I hear, “Don't bother coming back down to say you're sorry again, I don't care.” I run back to my room, with tears already welling in my eyes, and fall asleep. The morning arrives, yet my dad refuses to acknowledge my existence. At that moment, I was contemplating whether my dad was still the best dad I could ever ask for.

Eight years later, I still had many encounters that made me question my father’s love for me. Somehow, I still had faith that he was a good dad. I was babysitting my cousin when I walked into her room and saw she drew with permanent markers all over the walls. When her father came through the door, I explained what happened. I never saw him once get the urge to scream at his small, beautiful daughter. He punished her and gave her extra chores as most parents would do, but he didn’t make her question her worth as my father once did to me. Seeing this brought me back to the memory of that spectacular summer day when I began to understand my dad was never the perfect father I thought he was. From that day on, I stopped caring whenever he screamed because I knew he was more of just a man who had kids than a father. Parents' love should always shine through, even when they’re angry. That is something I wasn't lucky enough to experience.