I believe that relationships don’t simply end when someone passes away. Not long after my father died, I started having nightmares. In them, we were yelling at each other—saying awful things about not loving one another, about how hard it was to live under the same roof. I think these dreams were my mind's way of working through regret—regret that I didn’t appreciate him more while he was here.

The truth is, I’m a lot like my father. As a teenager, I didn’t like that. We were both quiet, introspective, computer nerds. That kind of personality doesn’t often get celebrated in a world that rewards extroversion and flash.

Fathers, in general, often go unnoticed in our culture. They quietly move through life, doing the hard work, often in difficult jobs, making sacrifices for their families without asking for recognition. The mother is often seen as the emotional center, the caregiver—and rightly so—but there are other kinds of gifts too. The father who drives through unfamiliar neighborhoods at 3 AM, before the days of GPS, just to find medicine to ease his child’s pain. The one who deals with defiant teenagers, the one who stays steady, consistent, dependable. The kind of presence you don't always see until it’s gone.

As I began to reckon with the many gifts my father gave me—some visible, many not—my relationship with him began to evolve, even after his death. The dreams changed. They softened. They became less painful, more reflective. Eventually, they stopped altogether.

I struggled to find a way to express all this. Then I remembered the list. The gift list.

This small, quiet documentation is more than just a record of purchases. It's a record of love, of care, of intention. My father was not only a good father—he was a good husband. And this list, in its simple, quiet way, is proof of that.