Every single year (except for last year, which I think we can all agree was just a little bit weird -- although, at the time, it seemed to be weird in a good way), I write my dad a letter for my birthday.
It makes sense in my head, okay?
This year, for the first time in a good long while, the bittersweet exercise is going to be quite a bit less "bitter" and quite a lot more "sweet."
I have this image in my head of him giving me an empty box with a note that says:
Hey, Bud --
24, wow. That makes your mom and me pretty much decrepit! Please be sure to find her a nursing home with a decent cafeteria when the time comes, probably tomorrow.
I couldn't decide what to get you (nothing seemed just right), so I figured I'd just remind you of something yet again because, even though you've finally figured it out, I know it's something you still need to hear occasionally:
IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT.
I hope it fits.
Love,
-- Dad
P.S. Enjoy the empty box, sucker!
That's my dad.
I love him.
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