There is a version of my father that exists on paper. It lists the facts of him the way facts do, accurately and without warmth. This is not that version. This is the one where he drove a demon out of his daughter’s house without flinching, opened his blue eyes one last time for her and nobody else, and taught her without ever once saying so that love is not a feeling you manage. It is a decision you make and keep making. I learned that in five days in July. I have never loved any other way since.