Love letter to my dad

Dear Dad,

I've been sitting here thinking about everything you've done for me, and my eyes keep going back to one image: you, before sunrise, pulling on your worn-out boots and heading out to the garden.

I used to complain about waking up early for school. But you? You were already hours into your day, hacking at the soil, planting seeds you couldn't be sure would grow, sweating under a sky that hadn't even turned blue yet. I never said it then, but I see it now—that was love. Not the fancy kind. The real kind. The kind that breaks your back and still gets up the next morning.

Do you remember those years when things were tight? When the harvest was poor or the rains came too late? You never let me feel the weight of it. You'd come inside with mud up to your knees, hands cracked and bleeding, and still ask if I'd eaten. Still smile. Still tell me not to worry. That's the part that gets me now, Dad. You carried a mountain every single day, and you made sure I only saw a hill.

You gave up new clothes, new shoes, any kind of rest so I could have books, a warm meal, a roof. I remember once you sold some of the garden produce just to buy me a new school bag. You acted like it was nothing. But I saw you walking slower that week. I saw you wince when you sat down. You never said a word.

Every bruise on your hands, every crack in your voice from the dust and exhaustion, every single early morning you dragged yourself out of bed while the world was still asleep—that was you building my future with nothing but dirt, sweat, and stubborn love.

I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I'm not just proud of you. I'm in awe of you. You didn't have much. But you gave me everything.

Thank you for every dark morning you faced so mine could be bright. Thank you for never letting me go hungry even when you must have been starving yourself. Thank you for being the kind of father who doesn't need to say "I love you" because he already showed it before dawn, in the garden, with bleeding hands and a quiet heart.

I also want to say I’m sorry for the times I made things hard. For the door slams, the silences, the stubbornness. I was figuring things out—and I’m still figuring them out. But I never stopped loving you, even when I didn’t know how to show it.

You’ve given me more than you’ll ever claim. And I hope you know how much you mean to me. Not just as my dad, but as a person I genuinely admire.

I love you, Dad. And I will spend the rest of my life trying to make sure all those early mornings were worth it.

Your grateful daughter,

Norah Joseph.