315. — Dad Crush

And I thought: Oh. There it is. Entry #315.

Not a metaphorical hammer of realization, but an actual, honest-to-god, rubber-grip Stanley hammer. I was fifteen, helping my dad build a birdhouse—a lopsided, condemned-looking thing that no self-respecting sparrow would ever nest in. He handed me the hammer, wrapped my fingers around the rubber grip, and then placed his hand over mine to guide the first swing.

The crush faded, as crushes do. By seventeen, I was annoyed by his dad jokes. By eighteen, I was embarrassed by his old sneakers. By twenty, I was gone to college, calling home once a week, keeping him on speaker while I scrolled my phone. 315. Dad Crush

I kissed his forehead. He stirred, mumbled, “Love you, kid.”

The Dad Crush never really goes away. It just changes shape. It becomes less about idolizing him and more about forgiving him. Less about wanting him to be perfect, and more about being grateful that he stayed—hammer in hand, flannel soft, ready to guide one more swing. And I thought: Oh

I didn’t have a crush on a pop star. I didn’t tape magazine cutouts of actors to my bedroom wall. My first real, heart-squeezing, stomach-dropping crush was on the man who packed my school lunches and knew the exact way I liked my grilled cheese—diagonal cut, slightly burnt on the edges.

It started, as these things often do, with a hammer. Not a metaphorical hammer of realization, but an

Let me be clear: this isn’t that kind of story. There’s no Freudian punchline, no scandal. It’s something quieter, and in its own way, more devastating.