Growing up, I understood one thing about my dad: He knew everything. In my teen years, he taught me things I'd need to know to survive in the real world. How to drive a stick shift. How to check your car tyre's pressure. The correct knife to use to cut a cantaloupe.
When I moved out on my own, I called him at least once a week, usually when something broke in my apartment and I needed to know how to fix it: the toilet, the air-conditioning, the wall, once, when I threw a shoe at a terrifying spider.
But then, eventually, I needed him less. I got married, and my husband had most of the knowledge I lacked about gutter cleaning and water heaters and nondestructive insect removal. For everything else, we had Google.
I don't know when it happened, but our conversations when I called turn into six words. Me: "Hi, Dad." Him: "Hi, sweets. Here's Mom."
I loved my dad, of course, but I wondered at times if maybe he had already shared everything I needed to know. Maybe I'd heard all his stories. Maybe, after knowing a man for 40 years, there's nothing left to say. Then, two summers ago, my husband, our four kids and I moved in with my parents for three weeks while our house was being painted. They owned a lake house, and my dad asked me to help him rebuild the bulkhead（舱壁）. It was hard, manual job. We got wet and sandy. But as we put the new bulkhead together piece by piece, my dad knew exactly what went where, I looked at him. "How do you know how to build a bulkhead?" "I spent a summer in college building them on the Jersey Shore."
"You did?" I thought I knew everything about my dad, but I never knew this. I realized that maybe it's not that there's nothing left to say. Maybe it's just that I've spent my life asking him the wrong questions. That day, my dad talked about what he had learned and what he could do excitedly. We chatted and chatted for a long time.
A few weeks later, after my family and I moved back into our painted house, I called my parents. "Hi, sweets," he said. "Here's Mom." "Wait, Dad," I said. "How are you?" We ended up talking about everything he was working on. To anyone else, it would sound like a normal conversation between a dad and his daughter. But to me, it was novel. A new beginning. I spent the first part of my life needing to talk to my dad. Now I talk to him because I want to.
