There are romantics, and then there’s my dad.
On father’s day, most people buy their dads fishing rods, barbecue sauce, beer and power tools. My dad, a musician and poet, always insists he only wants hugs. We get him candles, notebooks, rom-coms, and treble-clef-covered tchotchkes.
I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be more sappy. But about a year ago, while on vacation in England, his gushy idealism reached a whole new level.
Before settling into a train ride to Edinburg, my dad – single for the last 15 years – placed his suitcase on the seat next to him. A few minutes later a woman asked him if he would kindly move it so she could take her spot. He acquiesced, and they chatted through the whole trip.
About a week after that, Nora met him at the airport to say goodbye. They went out for hamburgers and vowed to keep in touch. Over the following weeks, they talked every day – using FaceTime to bridge the enormous distance between Midland, Ontario and London, England. He was head over heels.
Dad went to London for Christmas 2013, and when he got back, they were engaged. I had never seen him so happy. By March, he had moved there.
Things got a little dicey with immigration over the summer. And I have to admit to wondering whether the whole thing might be an elaborate scam. But I can now safely say that my sisters and I will be donning our best togs and toasting their marriage on December 28 – in jolly old Britain.
This is a beautiful story for about a billion reasons. They were both lonely. They didn’t let a single obstacle get in their way. They will live happily ever after. But most of all, it’s beautiful because it’s proof that anyone – even the most romantic of romantics – can find true love.
And I must be my father’s daughter because the whole saga makes me believe in pixies and pots of gold.