I looked at him.
“And then somewhere around year seven,” I said, “I stopped thinking about you. I stopped needing to prove anything. I just loved what I was building. I loved the people I was building it with.”
I looked out the window. At the ocean.
“That’s when it worked,” I said. “When I stopped waiting for you to say you were proud of me.”
My father put his hand over his eyes.
“I was,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
Ezoic
“Proud,” he said. Behind his hand. “I was proud of you. The whole time. I read every article. Your mother printed them out. Triangle Business Journal. The one in Forbes about women in logistics tech.”
Ezoic
He lowered his hand.
“I have them in a folder,” he said. “In the car. In the Pilot. With our important papers. Birth certificates. Social Security cards. The deed to the house we don’t have anymore.”
