“Some people don’t believe in heroes. They haven’t met my dad.”

—Anonymous

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My dad? Quite simply the best. He can do anything. Build anything. Be anything.

My friends all had the same generic Barbie dollhouse. My dad built a custom, three-story doll mansion for me.

My friends had pretty lunchboxes. Dad painstakingly hand-painted custom lunch bags with pretty murals and colorful characters for me.

All the furniture in our house… bought in a store? Nope. Handmade, by Dad, perfectly styled for the 70’s decor.

When we first moved into our home, Dad crafted a stunning, gigantic stained glass daisy for the front window. It was mom’s favorite flower. Why? Dad brought her daisies on their very first date.

Our “daisy house” was the talk of the neighborhood … so much so that people started calling me Daisy! I found this a bit disconcerting, as there actually was a girl named Daisy in the neighborhood. Still, it was very cool.

But there is one incident that still stands out, albeit a bittersweet one. My mom was really sick. She was in the hospital. As the oldest of three, I was at Dad’s side for most of the time.

It was the worst two weeks of my life. And, it happened to be senior prom time. A cruel coincidence, indeed. I couldn’t even consider it. My boyfriend understood. He was a good guy, too.

But Dad wouldn’t have it. “You need to go and have fun, get your mind off things for one night.” I resisted, but he persisted. Dad won, and I reluctantly made plans for the prom.

I had a beautiful purple, crushed velvet dress. Head to toe velvet, cinched with a gorgeous embroidered string of pearls at the top. The strands of pearl accent was my favorite part of the dress.

Dad absolutely beamed as I walked down the stairs. I smiled too. A fragile happiness. A smidgeon of joy in my heart. It was the first time in weeks.

Then disaster struck. As I descended the stairs, I heard the most awful sound, a cascade of pearls splashed to the floor. The gown was ruined. Sorrow, anger, and confusion over my ill mom – like an ocean wave, it all came crashing down. I looked up for Dad, but he wasn’t there.

I slumped in a heap, drowning in a pool of purple velvet and scattered pearls. I had nothing left. I sobbed. I gave up.

And then I heard an exuberant sound, Dad’s voice from above, “Alright, let’s get you fixed up!” I looked up. There was Dad, smiling, dustpan in one hand, sewing kit in the other.

Before I could even question what the heck my dad was doing with a sewing kit, he scooped up the pearls and began meticulously threading them back. Without a word, I wiped my tears and began to help. Within no time, every pearl was restrung. Not like before. Even better!

Did you ever know a dad who could do that? One who could sew and string pearls at the drop of a sash?

My mom did pass away. Dad had daisies carved into her headstone. They resembled the one that marked my childhood home, growing up.

I learned two important things that prom night.

— When you think you are at absolute bottom, and have nothing left… you do.

— Most girls savor diamonds and pearls. Me? I’ll take daisies and Dad any day.

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