After Mom died, I began visiting Dad every morning before work. Frail and slow-moving, he always had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice waiting for me, accompanied by an unsigned note: "Drink your juice." I knew this was his way of expressing love.
As a child, I once asked Mom, "Why doesn't Dad love me?" She smiled and replied, "He never tells me either. But look how hard he works to care for us. That's how he says 'I love you.'" I understood intellectually, but my heart yearned for him to say the words.
Dad ran a small scrap metal business. I often watched him work after school, hoping he'd ask for my help. He never did. His work was dangerous—feeding steel into a giant chopper or cutting metal with a roaring torch that spewed molten sparks.
One evening, Mom massaged his sore shoulders and asked why he didn't hire help. "Why don't you hire a cook?" Dad retorted with a rare smile. Their playful banter revealed a hidden sense of humor.
Years later, during my morning visits, I started hugging him and saying, "I love you, Dad." He never reacted. One rushed morning, I drank the juice and headed for the door.
Dad stepped in front of me. "Well?" he said, avoiding my gaze. I hugged him tightly and finally voiced my lifelong wish: "I'm fifty, and you've never told me you love me."
He looked intensely uncomfortable. "Dad, I need to hear it," I insisted. After a tense silence, he finally blurted out, "All right, I love you." His hands fluttered, and his eyes glistened, then overflowed with tears.
I stood stunned. In that moment, my heart finally understood what my mind had long known. His love had always been there—in every glass of juice, every long day of work, every silent sacrifice. "I know, Dad," I whispered. "I know."