Wonder Daily

Back then when I was in high school, I hated the sound of my father’s old car. It was a small, blue sedan that made a loud noise whenever he started the engine. The paint was fading, one of the windows barely worked, and the passenger door had to be opened from the outside. My father had owned that car for almost fifteen years. I was sixteen when I started becoming embarrassed by it. Whenever he came to pick me up from school, I would pretend not to see him. Sometimes, I would walk several streets away before calling him to say I was ready. He never complained. He would simply wait until I got into the car and ask how my day went. I usually gave him one word answers. Things became worse when some of my classmates started making jokes about his car. One afternoon, a friend saw him waiting outside the school gate and laughed. “Is that your dad’s car? I thought that thing belonged in a museum.” I laughed along with them, even though I knew it wasn’t funny. That evening, I told my father I no longer wanted him picking me up from school. He looked at me for a moment before asking why. I told him I was old enough to take the bus. He nodded and said, “Alright. Just make sure you get home safely.” From that day, I stopped allowing him to come near my school. For the next two years, I took the bus home, even on days when it rained heavily. My father continued working as a mechanic at a small workshop. He wasn’t wealthy, but he always made sure I had everything I needed for school. Whenever I needed money for books, school trips, or examination fees, he somehow found a way to provide it. Still, I never appreciated those things. I was too busy wishing he could be like the fathers of some of my classmates. On the morning of my high school graduation, my father asked if he could attend the ceremony. I hesitated before saying yes. He arrived wearing his best shirt and an old pair of brown shoes. He even shaved his beard that morning. When I saw him standing near the entrance, I felt embarrassed again. I quickly walked past him and joined my classmates. During the ceremony, I noticed him sitting quietly at the back. He didn’t have a camera like some of the other parents. He simply watched as students received their certificates. After the ceremony, my teacher asked me to come to the staff room. She handed me a small brown envelope. “Your father asked me to give you this after graduation,” she said. I opened it, expecting money or perhaps a simple congratulatory message. Instead, I found several photographs. They were pictures of me at different school events. My first debate competition. My inter-house sports day. My science exhibition. Even a photograph of me receiving an award in my second year. I was confused because I had never seen my father at most of those events. Then I noticed something written on the back of each photograph. “I watched him win today. He looked so happy.” “He was nervous before going on stage, but he did well.” “I wish I could have taken a better picture.” I looked at my teacher. She quietly explained that my father had been coming to school for years. Sometimes, he arrived during his lunch break. Other times, he came straight from the workshop before his shift ended. He never wanted me to see him because he knew I was uncomfortable around him. 🧵