My dad.

Through all this stupid cancer biz, one thing is remarkably clear: just how loved I am.
My relationship with my dad (my birth father, Jim, for those of you keeping track) over the years has been an odd one. We spent a good decade-plus chunk in the middle of it barely knowing each other at all.
But despite everything that happened, it never occurred to me to feel salty about the years we kinda lost each other. And once we had reconnected, he was honestly the reason I left Seattle and moved back to Ohio nine and a half years ago.
Even during the time we were both here, we sometimes got too caught up in "life" to see each other or even talk regularly.
Now we talk every day. And if we didn't, it wouldn't matter. But it's pretty cool that we do - even if it's just for a moment.
I've given him a hard time about his way of coping with my diagnosis (namely by poopooing a certain country song - hehe) but I'm amazed by him, too. Every day.
Especially yesterday, when I got a picture text of the tattoo he got. His first. For me.
I love you, daddy.
Always, Phoebe