Years later, when I moved away for college, the hazel heart I carried inside didn’t change color, but it grew deeper. I’d call my dad in the middle of the night when a new chord I’d learned didn’t quite fit, and he would listen, his voice a calm tide that steadied my own stormy thoughts. He never stopped playing that old guitar, and sometimes, when the world seemed too loud, I could hear its soft strumming drifting through the phone line, a reminder that the melody of his heart still resonated inside me.
When the song ended, my dad looked at me, his eyes a shade of blue that reminded me of the sky just before sunrise. “You know,” he said, “when I was your age, I thought being a dad would be the hardest thing I’d ever do. Turns out, it’s just learning how to be a kid again—how to see the world through fresh eyes.” dadcrush hazel heart