The words fell out of my mouth, “I don’t know how to ride a bike.” As soon as I blurted it out, I immediately regretted it.  A recurrent brain tumor and five surgeries left my father with the inability to complete common skills that others take for granted. So, as a child I learned to play catch with myself and climb on the money bars without a spot. Speaking of the playground, we’d walk to get there, as I was never driven by my father. By four years old, I could guide my family on a walking tour to the pizza parlor, public library, and playground. We never drove anywhere, and certainly never rode bikes. 

 Growing up, I thought that was normal. I never realized that all dads don’t slur their words or need to hold your hand on the stairs. Climbing the three steps in our house was one of our most thrilling adventures. My tiny left hand grabbed on to his right as we made our way to the base of the stairs. Mirroring his actions, I pushed the wall on the right to stable myself, and more importantly my dad. My forearm pushing up against his, he took his first shaky step. Making sure both feet were on the first step, we repeated that action twice more until successfully standing two feet higher than we were before. 

Years later Dad’s hand clutched onto mine the same way it did on our stairs. While we walked down the uneven brick sidewalk of a new town I watched Dad struggle to find his balance. My mom and sister are far ahead, making a jetline for the beach. Carefully watching one foot follow the next, I was the stability my dad needed. We made our way across town while locals and even other tourists wove around trying not to gawk. My father seemed immune to the continuous stares, and now I understand.  People stare because they don’t see what I see. They leer at a weak man trembling, holding the hand of a girl half his size. The man I see in front of me is strong, protective, and perfectly balanced.