I remember my dad walking slowly but quickly to the car where I sat in the back seat at the age of seven. He opened up the front seat then looked back up at me and then down. I didn't know what he was thinking. And then he closed the door and got in the back. He slid in the seat next to me. I looked at him and I knew he was hurt. Him and my mom were previously fighting, like usual, and I guess my mom told him that she never loved him in the first place. He was in so much pain but he managed to get through it and still raise me. He smiled at me, through the hurt and pain and I smiled back at him. I grabbed his large hand compared to mine. My smaller fingers lingered and gripped around his wrist. I could feel his pulse, there but barely. And then I remembered, I laid my head on his chest and his pulse got quicker, not by much. But to this day, I believe that happened because he loved me, and that he thought that by the simplest action, I was telling him I was there for him.