me when none of us had a car, so we had to ride the bus whenever we came home. Though the bus stopped about two miles from home, Dad never met us, even in inclement weather. If someone grumbled4 (and my brothers grumbled a lot), he’d say in his loudest father-voice,“That’s what your legs are for!”
So when I went away to college, I knew I was in for a long walk whenever I came home. The walk didn’t bother me as much as the fear of walking alone along the highway and country roads. I also felt less than valued that my father didn’t seem concerned about my safety. That feeling was canceled one spring evening.
It had been a particularly difficult week at college. Tests and long hours in labs had left me exhausted. I longed for5 home and a soft bed. As other students were met at their stops, I gazed wistfully out the window. Finally, the bus shuddered6 to a stop at my destination point, and I stepped off, lugging my suitcase to begin the long trek home.
A row of privet hedge edged the driveway that climbed the hill to our house. Once I had turned off the highway to start the last lap of my journey, I was always relieved to see the hedge7 because it meant that I was almost home. On that particular evening, the hedge had just come into view when a gentle rain began to fall. I stopped to put a book in my suitcase and when I stood up, I saw something gray skimming8 along the top of the hedge, moving toward the house. Upon closer observation, I realized it was the top of my father’s head. Then I knew—each time I’d come home, he had stood behind the hedge, watching, until he knew I had arrived safely. I swallowed hard against the threatening tears. He did care, after all.
On subsequent visits, that spot of gray became my beacon9. I could hardly wait until I was close enough to watch for its covert movement above the greenery. Upon reaching home, I would find my father sitting innocently in his chair.“So! It’s you!” he’d say, his face lengthening into mock surprise.
I replied, “Yes, Dad, it’s me. I’m home.”