Press enter or click to view image in full size He never said it. Not on birthdays. Not when I was sick. Not when I moved out. “I love you” wasn’t in his vocabulary. But a toolbox was. The ceiling fan in my room made that dying sound every summer. I’d mention it once. By evening, the room was silent. Fixed. He never announced it. I’d just find his screwdriver back in the drawer. My bike chain slipped off when I was ten. I cried like it was the end of the world. He didn’t hug me. He flipped the bike, wiped the grease off with his hands, fixed the chain, and said, “Try it now.” He stitched my broken backpack the night before a big test. He fixed the dripping faucet while I slept. He fixed my confidence with five words: “You’ve got this. Keep going.” I broke things constantly. Plans. Deadlines. My own spirit. He never asked for details. He just showed up with tape, tools, or a terrible joke. For years I thought love was supposed to sound like something. Turns out, sometimes it sounds like a hammer at 6 AM.…