The Architect’s Daughter

She knew how to bring out the best in him. Often exacting and distant as a dad in his earlier years, whenever he had the chance to spend time with this daughter of his, all of that seemed to melt away. She had a way of coaxing the boy, who never got to be a boy when he was a boy, to come out and play. Nothing made them happier than playing with materials that others saw as trash and transforming them into treasures. Together, heads bent over a drawing of some dreamed of project, their shared gift of exquisitely combining form and function came alive. A mistake that would once have brought his criticism and a list of what went wrong, became a chance to spend more time to together, covered in dust, figuring out how to get it right.  

The daughter loved the architect for who he was, and extended grace for who he was not, and the architect loved his daughter in all the ways in which he could, never fully understanding the ways in which he could not. In the end, she will remember her love for him, and his for her, as an imperfect thing of beauty and a joy forever.

  With deep gratitude to the architect for the gift of his daughter. 

 With deep gratitude to the architect for the gift of his daughter.