My dad was always the strong one — the man with calloused hands, a toolbox heart, and a steady silence that rarely broke. But one quiet Tuesday, I saw another side of him.

I climbed onto the counter and asked, “Daddy, can you paint my toes the way Mommy used to?” He didn’t hesitate. He just nodded, set me down gently, and held my tiny foot as though it were something sacred. With his rough fingers wrapped around the brush, he painted with a focus I’d only ever seen when he fixed engines or built shelves — only this time, it was for me.

When I whispered, “Do you think Mommy would be proud?” the brush paused mid-stroke. His jaw tightened, his eyes shone. Then, with a shaky smile, he said, “She’d love this… though she’d probably tell me I missed a spot.”

We laughed — a small, fragile laugh that filled the room with both ache and comfort. And as he set the brush down, he leaned close and whispered words that I carry still:
“I promised her I’d keep up the good work. And I will.” ❤️