Crushing Hearts and Patio Furniture
When Blue Roses and Wedding Money—leave you Confused
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There’s a memory that still sits heavy in my chest—the time I crushed my father’s heart. I was going through a breakup and, in his way, he tried to make things better. My dad, the one who didn’t always show his love through words, decided to show it through a gesture. He bought me a beautiful blue rose and played the song Blue to comfort me.
At that moment, I didn’t realize what he was doing. In my mind, I was already over the breakup, back together with the same boyfriend who had broken my heart. And when my dad saw my reaction—an indifferent shrug as I explained things were fine—his face fell. I saw the light leave his eyes, and I knew I’d just crushed him. Maybe it was the fact that I had gone back to the very person who had hurt me, or maybe it was just the love and effort he had poured into making me feel better, only for it to fall flat. Either way, I hurt him, and I didn’t even notice at the time.
This was just one of many instances where I unintentionally hurt my father. It’s funny how the people who love you most are often the ones you hurt without meaning to. My dad wasn’t the type to say, “I love you” or offer words of affirmation like we all crave. His love language was different. For him, love wasn’t about verbal validation—it was about giving. His way of showing he cared was through gifts. He would buy things, thoughtful things, trying to make me feel better when I was down. But I didn’t understand that then.
Back then, I had no concept of love languages. I was too busy living in my own world, so wrapped up in my own problems to see the love he was trying to give. My dad and I have always been at odds in that way. We’ve never really understood each other completely. I could never wrap my head around why he showed love the way he did, and he couldn’t seem to understand why I didn’t respond in kind. But there was one thing I always knew: If I needed him, I could run to him, and he would try to make things better.
But the road to understanding isn’t always smooth, is it? Sometimes, his attempts to help would come in the form of unsolicited advice—advice I definitely didn’t want and, frankly, didn’t ask for. It’s not that he meant to anger me, but the frustration grew. There was always this underlying feeling that no matter what I did, I wasn’t doing it right.
One memory that stands out is when my husband and I decided to use our wedding money to buy patio furniture. To me, it seemed like the right choice at the time. But to my dad? It was the wrong choice. He was so disappointed that we didn’t use that money to invest or pay off bills. I was completely confused. To me, it was a small, simple decision, but to him, it felt like I had made a terrible mistake.
It wasn’t until much later that I began to question why his reactions were so strong. Maybe there was more going on beneath the surface—maybe he had a different way of seeing the world, a different way of processing emotions, that I hadn’t fully understood. I began to wonder if my dad was neurodivergent. Maybe he had been forced to suppress his true self, his true way of being, to fit into a world that expected him to be a certain way. The generation he grew up in wasn’t kind to those who were different. It was a time when differences weren’t celebrated, but punished.
And that realization, though sad, gave me a new perspective. It made me realize how difficult his life must have been, and how much he might have struggled with his own feelings. But here’s the thing: he would never admit that. Back then, emotions were a taboo subject, and even suggesting that he might have a neurodivergent trait would probably make him uncomfortable. It would likely trigger an emotional outburst, something I’ve seen time and time again when I push him to go deeper into his feelings.
So here I am, reflecting on these past moments—moments where I unintentionally hurt him, moments when I didn’t understand. And I’m starting to see him in a new light. I understand now that my dad’s love was always there. It wasn’t about the words or the hugs, it was about the gestures. It was about him trying to connect with me in the only way he knew how.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to talk to him about this, or maybe I won’t. But for now, I just hope he knows I see him. I see his efforts. And, even if I didn’t always show it, I appreciate them. And I’m learning—bit by bit—to understand him the way he deserves.
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