Several of my favorite memories of my dad involve something happening in the night, and he is there keeping me safe and protecting me. One is when I was sick, and he cleaned up after me. Not going to sleep until he was sure I was ok. The other is waking up to him holding me after a nightmare.

The dream is one I had several times as a teenager. I see my entire family get on an airplane, knowing it will crash, but still getting on the plane with them. The plane inevitably goes down, and we are all safe except for my oldest brother. I would wake up sobbing, certain that my brother was dead. This specific night, I was 12, long past the time when I felt like I needed to be held. My dad has only held me once more as a teenager, the night a friend committed suicide. There’s something about being held in your dad’s arms.

It makes the world turn again. Comfort when you need it, no strings attached. Sometimes when I am deeply upset my husband holds me the same way, and it feels the same. Safe. Warm. Protected.