My dad always noticed when I was dressed up. He was the kind of guy who appreciated a good pair of heels and a swipe of lipstick.
My dad always told me I was beautiful. And I always believed him.
My dad loved my surprise visits to his office. I loved the look on his face when he opened the door to his examining room and saw me. I remember the feeling of his crisp, white lab-coat hugs and the way he would wrap an arm around my shoulder and proudly introduce me to his patients.
“Meet my gorgeous daughter.” He would say, every time.
And every time I was embarrassed and pleased and proud of my handsome, brilliant doctor-father who could hear fetal heartbeats and bring life into the world.
Even sick, he noticed an effort made. I thought about my clothes for chemo appointments and hospital visits. I wore lipstick to the oncologist. If I still tried, I thought, so would he.
Today would gave been his 68th birthday. I miss his advice, his wisdom, and the way he adored his grandchildren.
I also miss my dad telling me that I’m beautiful. And believing him.