My half-sister laughed. She told me that she had children to raise and things to do. I was 42, independent, and capable, and I could do with something as symbolic as a simple plant.
I didn’t say a single word. Instead, I took the cactus home, like I do with all kinds of plants, cradling the pot as though it could shatter.
That evening, I propped it in the middle of my kitchen table and sat opposite it for a long time. The yellow light made it look bland. And then I thought to myself: this is what my dad held on to every single day. That was the one thing my father had clung to the entire time. The one thing he never replaced or got tired of.
Truth is, my father wasn’t someone who expressed emotions easily. In fact, he was a man of few words who spoke through routines and habits. He always showed up when he said he would and held on to what mattered. My dad was someone who believed in actions over words.
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