My father wrapped his final gift with enduring love

G

ifts were my father’s love language, and he gave whenever the opportunity arose. He loved to splurge on his wife and on us, his children.

My mother, on the other hand, came from a home where every penny was accounted for, and every expense evaluated for its necessity. My father deeply appreciated her money management skills — it was her careful scrimping and saving that allowed them to buy a car, and later a house. Yet every now and then, he would follow his heart and give with all the joy and love he had for us.

When I was a little girl, I saw my father most on Shabbos. On weekdays, he returned home from work after I was already asleep. On lucky days, I would hear his Ford Windstar pulling into the driveway while I was still lying awake in bed. I’d hear his light footsteps coming down to the basement where we slept. He’d come into my brother’s bedroom and then mine, pretending to chastise us for not being asleep yet. With his strong hands, he’d bounce me up and down on the mattress, saying in a voice that could only be loving, even as he pretended to be angry, “Why aren’t you sleeping yet?” I’d giggle, feeling the warmth emanating from him.

My mother could never use the typical one-liner “When Tatty comes home, you’re gonna get it!” because although there were certainly times my father disciplined us, he wasn’t an overbearing authoritarian figure. My mother was the disciplinarian. Her love for us was steady, there in the daily routine and constancy. My father’s love was overflowing, always brimming over.

It was a treat to take a drive with my father. “Pull out a snack from the trunk,” he would tell my little brother when they drove to shul together. Potato chips, sandwich cookies, chocolates — my brother could choose whatever he fancied. He loved those rides and kept his special treatment a secret from the rest of us.