The two of my parents have always wanted to be more, much more, until they ended up overlapping without competing. However, those tectonic plates of filial love tremble on days like these, and counts come out.

Dad was, as a child, the measure of all things. Papín the safe port when a fight between little friends made me cowardly.

Dad slept with me, patiently combed my hair and played his music for me. Papín approached with small steps, with the knot of the scarf and the drawings of boats, afraid of usurping places.

Dad encouraged me to embroider, knit, design houses, write stories and press flowers. Papín taught me how to brew coffee and praised me the first cup.

I remember one carrying me on trains and negotiating with drivers to cross four provinces. I remember the other joking in the hospital infirmary to get rid of the needle scare. One in the thesis, the other in graduation. With Papin on Papin's birthday, with Papin on Papin's birthday. It was always swapped.

If I can expect the best from people, and base my actions on that, it's because of Dad. If I cook expecting someone to arrive unannounced, it's because of Papín. Dad with me when I write and when I learn. Papín with me when I speak in front. Dad with me when my head is in the clouds. Papín with me when I have my feet on the ground.

Sometimes I think I will not be able to be that much of a daughter, but love is never superfluous. I learned it from them.