My Dad Never Said He Loved Me. He Fixed My Bike.

He hadn't even taken his helmet off yet when he saw his father's legs sticking out from under his own motorbike. The smell of engine oil rising in the morning light. No idea how long the old man had been lying there.

"What are you fixing?" he asked. His father didn't look up. Three words: "Brakes are worn." Then back to the bolt, back to wiping his hands on the rag. He stood there longer than usual, with nothing to add. His father had never hugged him, never told him he was doing well. His father had a wrench and two hands black with grease.

Four years of riding that beat-up bike to school far from home, and it never broke down once. Every time he came back, it ran smoother than when he left. Fresh oil. Firm tires. Every bolt tight. Back then he thought he'd been lucky. He's only noticing now — it had been like this since he was a kid. Nobody ever mentioned it.

The last morning before heading back to the city, his father had the bike out in the yard by six. Pumping the tires, tightening bolts, checking the brakes one more time. Not a word of advice — just wrenches knocking together in the toolbox. As the engine turned over, he looked back and said the thing nobody in that house had ever said out loud.

He never once said he loved me. He said it with a wrench.

Some people say it in words. Some say it with a wrench, a plate of food left out, a call asking if you got there safe. Is there someone whose way of saying it you've been missing?