Dad sits at the head of the table, his glasses perched low on his nose as he scribbles notes in the margins of a thick textbook. Even at home, the air around him hums with quiet focus and gentle authority. I watch from across the table, a sense of pride swelling in my chest every time I catch his thoughtful frown or the flash of inspiration in his eyes.

Rumors swirl among my classmates about Dad, the legendary teacher no one has in class but everyone seems to know. A classmate leans in, eyes wide with admiration, "Your dad's the one who made the solar system model in the library, right? He's, like, a genius!" I grin, feeling a quiet thrill that my father's reputation outshines any title.

Dad never stops teaching, even when the school day ends. Whether it's explaining the mysteries of the universe or sharing stories from history, his voice is calm and patient. "Learning doesn’t stop when the bell rings. Curiosity is a gift—never let it go," he reminds me, his words lingering long after the conversation ends.

Walking side by side, Dad and I talk about everything and nothing at all. He listens more than he speaks, guiding me with gentle questions rather than instructions. Only now do I realize what a blessing it was to have a teacher for a father, one who never forced knowledge but inspired it.

Dad[/@ch_1].] As I write, I struggle to find words big enough for my pride. "Thank you for being the brightest man I’ve ever known, for teaching me not just facts but how to learn. I am so proud to be your child," I whisper to the empty room, certain that, wherever he is, he already knows.