As per tradition, on this 3rd Sunday in June, the UK is celebrating Father’s Day, an annual event to mark all that our father’s do for us. Also fairly typically, at least in my house, the celebration consisted of me handing my dad a card I’d bought last minute during the week and then kind of leaving it at that. I mean, of course my mum dragged us all out to a meal that my sister and I really were not interested in (Mexican isn’t really our thing), but I hardly think that counts considering we were mostly just complaining about the food not being here and then stuffing our faces when it arrived (so it wasn’t as disappointing as I was expecting apparently).

However, this has got me thinking about just how much my dad does for me. While I might not be two any more, still needing my mouth wiped after I’ve eaten (well, sometimes anyway), being a sixteen year old, even one with no social leaves me quite dependent on my parents, and since dad works from home most days, he’s the one I need to turn to.

Of course, the thing he does the most obviously for me is driving me everywhere. On Saturdays he picks me up from work, during my exams he’s been picking me up from school, he’s the one who drove me to both of my viola exams and was the last friendly face I saw before I was forced to face that hell (tip: don’t play classical music, it’ll ruin your life). In some of these car journeys we can have deep and meaningful conversations, scientific discussions (shush we’re both nerds) or just sitting in contented silence because the best kind of company is the kind that knows when quiet isn’t awkward.

But then there are all of the things I forget about, that him and mum have been doing for every day of their adult lives. Coming around in the morning to see if I have any clothes for the wash. Hoovering my bedroom floor. Carefully removing invasive eight-legged demons from the house. Making dinner (even if he does always burn the chips). And even when he gets angry that I don’t pull my weight more (I’m sorry, I just forget), he still does these things.

Basically, the reason I’m writing this is to say thanks. I don’t say it enough, but I should. I also can’t be bothered to, so maybe I’ll say it more once I’ve finally left home and I’m having to deal with these things on my own. Thank you for tolerating and loving me since before I was born, almost seventeen years ago.

I love you, dad.