A friend once asked me why I didn’t call my ex-husband, well, “my ex-husband”. Instead I always say “Bar’s dad”.
It’s simple. The term “my ex-husband” is too possessive for me. To me, he is not “my” anything any more. But he will always be our daughter’s father.
He was a good dad when she was growing up. He loved having her with him, whether he was working in his garden or going to the hardware store.
And while she has my face, my hair, and my personality, she has his ears, his hands and his teaching spirit.
"I don’t know why, but I like your hands the best."
"I know it’s broken. Just have Daddy fix it."
"Pet my face ‘til I go to sleep."
"Lift me up one more time."
"Plant my garden right here."
Daddy’s hands can do anything
When you’re six years old.