I never expected love to look like crumpled notes sealed in plastic, stacked quietly inside a bathroom pipe. Each slip of paper held a version of me my father had carefully archived: a nervous child on her first day of school, a distant voice on the phone, a laugh he missed more than he could admit. These weren’t just memories; they were proof that, even in my absence, I had never left his daily life.
When I confronted him with the notes, embarrassment flickered across his face, then softened into something tender and shy. He didn’t have grand speeches, just a simple confession: he wanted to keep me close. Standing there, surrounded by old tools and the faint smell of metal and dust, I understood that some people love in whispers, not declarations. His broken sink was never neglect. It was a quiet shrine to a daughter he never stopped holding onto.
