June is the perfect month for Father’s Day. When a man is honorable and kind (or if he’s not, I suppose) his traits show up clearly during the long hours of daylight. Lucky for me, my menfolk are the sort whose sweetness and generosity I can truly celebrate.
In June eighteen years ago, in an act of quite staggering bravery, my husband married me. My dad signed the cheques for the historic venue, flower petals on the lawn, and wine for 70; I like to think he smiled while he did it.
On our anniversary ten years ago, my husband proved his devotion again when he indulged my love of cycling by buying a pair of padded shorts and riding around Ireland with me for a month. I don’t even remember asking my parents, but they stepped up to look after the house and the cat.
Four years ago, my husband cheered when I quit my day job so I could spend more time writing novels. (Okay, he grunted. I like to think of it as a cheer.) That same month, I told my father I was going to ride my two-wheeler around British Columbia alone; he ratcheted a smile onto his face and then, with a red satin ribbon, tied a little bell to my handlebars to scare away the bears.
Last week, my husband told me he hopes I’ll keep penning those books. Then he kissed me goodbye and went to work so I could.
And yesterday, my dad arrived with a punnet of strawberries from a local farm.
“It’s supposed to be Father’s Day tomorrow,” I said happily as I took the little basket, “but instead you’ve turned it into Daughter’s Day.”He and my husband exchanged glances. “It’s always Daughter’s Day,” Dad said.