This is my dad.

This is my dad. He is basically me, with less hair and more hats.

We worry the same. We tend to expect the worst. When we get behind the wheel of a car, we assume everyone around us is a secret demon trying to relieve us of our lives, and we drive accordingly—like Frogger about to get beaned by a dune buggy. We both think it’s kind of a small miracle we’re still here, considering everything that can go wrong.

We love the same. He taught me when I was young—not explicitly, but by example—that no one is disposable or dismissable, and everyone deserves a chance. I watched him give decades of his life to human services, getting paid next to nothing to give next to everything. He cared for people most of society can’t even see: buying them groceries, monitoring their meds, listening to their stories. I’ll never be on the front lines the way he was or help as many people as he did, but I try my best to follow his example. I try to write the kind of books that would have helped me through tough times when I was younger. And I try to see the good in everyone, even if I have to squint.

We doubt the same. The greatest gift he ever gave me was a love of critical thinking and a deep sense of comfort with uncertainty. Even when I was a kid, he never tried to act omniscient; he was just another seeker, like me. Throughout my life, we’ve spent hundreds of hours at vacated dinner tables with the leftover crumbs of dessert on our plates, gleefully tackling giant issues: the Catholic Church, feminism, reproductive rights, the work-life balance. It was always, always okay if my conclusions didn’t match up with his. He gave me a safe place to wonder and question and doubt, and that safe place is inside me now, a permanent part of my brain.

I’m lucky enough that my dad is still around, still a part of my life. I don’t tell him how much he means to me often enough; I guess not many of us do. But there’s still time. So I’m writing this. And I’ll call him tonight. And I’ll try to be the person he thinks I am, because for whatever reason he seems to think I’m cool.

I hope you have a dad you can hug tonight, even if it’s long-distance. And if you are a dad, enjoy your new tie and your special dinner today. I know being a father is sometimes like being bitten by a thousand baby piranhas who are all shrilling DAD! DAD! DAA-AAAD! in between bites. But someday your kid’s going to blog about you, and you’ll know what a difference you made—just by being you, and being there.

Happy Father’s Day!