“Pops, I love you!” my 6-year-old giggled as she launched herself into my dad for a bear hug. He hugged her back with a playful eye roll and a slightly exaggerated, “Oh yes, I love you too,” before pulling her in for tickles.
I catch myself smiling every time I see him with my girls. It’s the same goofy energy he had with me as a kid: hugs, tickles, over-the-top silliness. It’s like a glimpse into my own childhood. My dad was always the one to make us laugh. He poked fun at just about anything — or anyone — always lightheartedly reminding us, “Hey, there’s no slack in this family.”
Courtesy of the author
And maybe that’s why we had a slightly different way of saying “I love you.” Instead, we said, “Like you a lot.”
It was never said with much seriousness, and most of the time followed by a chuckle — a quiet wink. Of course, he loved me, and I never doubted that. The words themselves weren’t off-limits, but at some point, we found something just as meaningful — and it stuck.
I grew up with different love languages
Between my mom and dad, my brother and I grew up with two very different love languages. My mom was the more openly affectionate parent, and loved us in a way that most people imagine a mother to be: warm, doting, attentive, and maybe a little overprotective.
But where my mom was cautious, my dad was more laid-back. She wanted to keep us close; he wanted us to venture out. She never held back her emotions; he kept his more subtle. She was the heart; he was the humor.
My dad didn’t say “I love you” the way others would expect, but his version showed up in other phrases: “I’m proud of you,” “You’re the best player out there,” or, my personal favorite, “I joined the Avril Lavigne fan club so you can get pre-sale concert tickets.”
It showed when I needed help with math homework or rides to practice, and when he made sure I had the newest phone or computer before any of my friends did (a big deal in the early 2000s).
It showed at my wedding, when we danced to Train’s “Drops of Jupiter.” It wasn’t the typical father-daughter dance song, but it was one that always played on the car radio whenever it was just the two of us, making it “ours.” Maybe the guests didn’t fully understand the meaning, but we did — just like “Like you a lot” was something only the two of us fully understood.
It was silly, yet meaningful — unusual to others, but ordinary to us. And it wasn’t until his parents became sick that I truly began to understand why.
My grandma’s last words were ‘I love you’
My grandparents began battling dementia at the same time. Nana passed first, and as we watched my Papa decline, we braced for what was coming. We made the four-hour drive to visit him at his care facility, determined to make the most of the time we had left.
That night, my dad and I processed the weight of my Papa’s final days over a few glasses of red wine. The conversation shifted to his mother, and I could tell a memory stirred something deeper — what I can only describe as pride — as he said, “You know, Nana’s last words to me were ‘I love you.'”
I smiled. It wasn’t the first time he told me that.
Maybe it was the wine poking at buried emotions, but it was more likely the realization that, at the end of her life, she wanted him to hear the words that had rarely been spoken out loud. I could tell how much it meant to him — not just because of how often he brought it up, but because of the quiet sense of relief in his eyes.
It mattered so much more than he let on
My dad’s version of “I love you” mirrored the home he grew up in, where the words felt foreign. He often joked about how his mother never said it, and maybe humor was his way of masking the fact that it mattered so much more than he let on.
Courtesy of the author
Now, when my daughters get a playfully hesitant “I love you” or a surprising peck on the cheek, they notice. It amazes me how intuitive they are — how they can sense when his actions are just a bit outside of his comfort zone. But, like me, they never doubt how much he loves them.
“Like you a lot” may not sound like much on the surface, but that’s the beauty of something so uniquely meaningful. My dad says “I love you” more now — even to me — but it’s “Like you a lot” that will always stick with me.
And he’ll always know how much I like him, too.
