I never expected to become like my father.
But I see him in my parenting.
I see him in the way I speak to my daughter.
I see him in the way I listen to her.
I see him in the way I respect her opinions.
My father taught me that effort mattered.
He did not measure everything by results.
If I tried sincerely, he saw the effort.
That lesson stayed with me.
I try to give that to my daughter now.
I want her to know that she does not have to be perfect to be loved.
I want her to know that she can have her own opinions.
I want her to feel respected.
I want her to feel safe being different.
My father never wanted his daughters to become small because society expected them to be small.
He raised us with strength.
He never made us feel that being daughters made us less valuable.
He gave us education.
He gave us independence.
He gave us choices.
And now I try to pass those things forward.
Sometimes I surprise my daughter at school.
My father used to surprise us.
Sometimes I look at her and think of him.
Sometimes I hear myself saying something and realise:
That is Appa speaking through me.
I want to give her the kind of childhood where she feels that someone is always there.
The kind of childhood where she knows someone will come home and ask:
What do you need?
The kind of childhood where her father or mother will notice the small things.
The kind of childhood where she can talk.
Sing.
Dance.
Make mistakes.
Be curious.
Be herself.
I also carry forward his love of quality.
His belief that children deserve to be well cared for.
His love of birthdays.
His love of good clothes.
His love of celebrations.
His love of nature.
His respect for effort.
His ability to forgive.
His kindness towards people.
His belief in education.
His willingness to help.
I cannot become exactly like my father.
No one can.
He was his own person.
But I can carry forward the parts of him that made the world better.
I can become a little more patient.
A little more generous.
A little more forgiving.
A little more present.
And when I look at my daughter, I understand my father more.
I understand why he searched for the perfect shoes.
Why he cared about food.
Why he worried about health.
Why he wanted to know what we needed.
Why he wanted to give us more.
I understand him because now I am a mother.
And I finally understand the kind of love that makes another person’s happiness feel like your own.
Perhaps this is how parents continue.
Not through photographs.
Not only through memories.
But through the way their children raise the next generation.