fathers and daughters

He called out to me as I was taking the blue recycling bin out of the side yard by the garage to roll to the curb. He had stopped his bicycle in the middle of the street, several feet away from the mouth of the driveway, when he had ridden by and seen me. He called me “sir,” and said he didn’t mean to startle me.

I was already in a bad mood for no good reason. I’d spent what felt like fifteen minutes searching through piles of shoes looking for my sandals, muttering frustratedly about never being able to find anything in my mess of a house. Then, once in the backyard where my wife and girls were playing with the dog in the spring air after dinner, I tried unsuccessfully to put air in The Pumpkin’s flat bike tires with a pump that was either broken or just impossible for me to figure out, adding self-pity to the frustration.

Now, here was this stranger intruding into the few minutes of solitude I’d have all day (taking out the trash!), probably a panhandler or can collector looking to get into the recycling bin I was dragging toward the curb. I was ready to blow him off, like I do most people who ask for money since the long-ago time I gave bus fare to one stranded man only to see him hitting up others with the same spiel hours later.

He stayed astride his bike, proffering his driver’s license as proof of his identity. He had lost his job but couldn’t collect unemployment because of a dispute with his ex-employer. He and his two daughters were homeless, had been on the street, then in a shelter which they left after he became concerned with the attention being given his daughters by an adult male resident. Tonight was their fourth night in a motel, where a neighbor lady was watching the girls, paying by the day as he scrounged the money. He was hoping to make the last $17 doing any odd jobs in the neighborhood. He’d made some money scrubbing out buckets for a florist, but he’d do anything, for whatever one would be willing to give.

I sighed, not knowing what to do. I didn’t think he was conning me. He seemed utterly sincere, contrite, and undemanding. I told him I didn’t have anything he could do around the house. I asked him about other resources, other service providers he’d tried to use. He named a few that he’d been to, said that they had some food but he was concentrating on finding work to make enough money to keep a roof over their heads for one more day, to make it one more day.

I told him to stay right there, that’d I’d be right back, and I went inside. I wondered what kind of reception he’d gotten from others he’d approached in the neighborhood that day, a lone black man on a bicycle in an area where there weren’t that many others. I thought about my girls, glancing at them through the back window as they played without a care, my wife probably wondering where I’d gone, what I was doing. I put a tray of leftover pad thai that la dra. had brought home from a meeting two nights before into a plastic bag and got a twenty dollar bill from my wallet, and headed back outside. As I walked past the kitchen window, I saw him wiping tears from his eyes.

I walked up to him and handed him the bag, telling him that it was stir-fried noodles, too much for us to eat alone. He thanked me as he took the bag, taking my soft, unexperienced hand in his rough, calloused one and shaking it. I don’t know how much older than me, pushing forty, he was, if at all, but his hands were proof of a life of hard work, all done for his family’s sake, a life I can’t imagine and by luck and circumstance have avoided having to know. As he thanked me, I handed him the folded bill and said, “I’m a father too.” I watched his eyes water as he saw what it was. I knew exactly what it was–three more dollars than he needed to guarantee one more night of shelter for his girls, enough so he could stop looking for work for the day and go be with them. He shook my hand again, firmly, thanked me again in a voice I could tell he was trying to keep from breaking. Was there anything he could do for me, he asked, any chore or odd job, anything at all? No, I said. Just take care of your children, I said, and take care of yourself.

After he thanked me again and rode away, I walked back into the backyard and found my loves in the far corner, at the play structure. The Button was sitting sideways on the swing, yelling “Yee haw!” as she pretended it was a horse. The Pumpkin was climbing up as high as she could go, saying, “Look at me! Look at me, Daddy!” Their mother was next to the play structure, playing with Fluffy, and she looked up as if to ask where I’d been. And without a word, I went to each of them, holding their faces in my soft hands and placing a kiss on their foreheads. My girls just laughed and went on playing, knowing that their mommy and daddy were there, and that they loved them. And at that moment, that is all they needed to know.

About Jason Sperber

Jason Sperber is a stay-at-home-dad of 2 daughters, a writer, and a professional ice cream taster in Bakersfield, California. Once upon a time, he was an OG dadblogger at daddy in a strange land and co-founded Rice Daddies, the seminal group blog by Asian American dads. He is a co-founding writer of, and is the resident hapa Trekkie at, The Nerds Of Color. Follow him on Twitter at @dad_strangeland and on Instagram at @jasonsperber.
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19 Responses to fathers and daughters

  1. SoulSnax says:

    That was sweet, Jason. Thanks for sharing that. 🙂

  2. superha says:

    This is my favorite post of yours. Beautiful. Just beautiful. I’m still crying.

  3. You did a good thing, Jason. A very good thing. Thanks for reminding me about the important things in life.

  4. Aw darn it. You made my eyes all watery first thing in the morning.

    Great writing.

  5. Justin says:

    Damn, you’re gonna make me cry

  6. Whit says:

    There’s that moment when you don’t know if you are being conned that makes many of us more cynical and a little more reluctant to give — you pushed through and did the right thing. Good on you, Sir.

  7. twobusy says:

    Wonderful story, wonderfully told.

  8. Reblogged this on Pancakey: and commented:
    This post was re-tweeted by Kristen Chase of Motherhood Uncensored. I don’t always take the time to read things that happen across my path like this, but this one I did. It’s absolutely beautiful. It served as the reminder that I need every now and again of how lucky I am. A reminder that there are families, probably not too far away, who are struggling just to make it through the day. I am so blessed. It’s has been awhile since I’ve donated or done anything for those less fortunate. Let this be a reminder to keep my eyes open to those opportunities.

  9. Your kids have a big softie for a dad. Lucky them. Well written, Jason.

  10. Mike says:

    This was lovely on so many levels. I’m proud to know you, as a writer and as a person.

  11. Pingback: Giving and Receiving | In the Soup

  12. elizabeth says:

    I never know when I’m being conned. I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t responsible for what people did with the money I gave them, I was only responsible to share what God had given me.

  13. I wonder if you benefited more from this than he did. Glad you told this story.

  14. Kelly Damian says:

    Great story Jason. Food for thought. I always appreciate getting my callouses ripped off every once in a while. I guess when I see a homeless person I only see that one person. I never stop to think about who else there might be. Sons? Daughters? Wives? Husbands? Thanks for this.

  15. blue milk says:

    Utterly heartbreaking.

  16. Pingback: Fathering and teen daughter sexuality « blue milk

  17. Alice C. says:

    Wow, that made me tear up and it wasn’t even my allergies. Thank you for sharing.

  18. This is so moving, and you did a wonderful thing

  19. Pedro says:

    Did I comment on this post before? I don’t think so, but I guess I’ve read it 4 times now. Every time I come here I have to read it, man! I really like it!

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