When my sister and I were little, Dad had this strange habit whenever he was around. I remember that one time I was playing with a plastic ball in the empty lot (now our house’s garage) and Dad was having coffee in the garden as folk music played in the stereo. Sometimes the ball would bounce toward him and I would run to fetch it. He would then reach for my head and tousle my hair as if it was the most natural thing. At that time, it was a gesture I had associated with boys so I assumed Dad was treating me like a boy because he secretly wished he had a son instead of a daughter. I went back to playing that day, clueless as to what it even meant. It was one of my earliest memories of him.
Fourteen years later and I don’t know how my dad managed to appear behind me–his hand on top of my head–patting my already messy hair. I didn’t want him to see me like this, but it was too late. I reached into my jean's pocket for my handkerchief and wiped my face hastily before turning around.
