Your father knows

I came home tonight to find a package in front of my door marked "Media Mail." I immediately recognized the white envelope as a package from my dad. He occasionally sends me books or articles wrapped simply in a manila (though his are white) envelope, folded over, taped, and addressed using bold printer ink (he has apparently figured out how to print my address on his computer).
I turned the package over, and slid my finger beneath the seal of the envelope. The paper ripped to reveal the corner of a paper-towel wrapped rectangle.
"Huh," I thought. "This must be a special book- he actually wrapped it first."
I pulled the book out of the envelope, ripped the paper towel off of it, and was met with an image of a drawn shadow next to a quote: "Foreshadowing: the use of an event, a character's thoughts, or a particular atmosphere to hint at what will happen."
"This is weird," I thought. "Is this some comic book we talked about? Is this the latest fad for third graders? Why is he sending me this book?"
And then I turned the book over.
I immediately spied three comic- book drawn mice at the base of the cover. My eyes then scanned the book for its title and found: "Once, Twice, Thrice Told Tales: Three mice full of writing advice."
"What?" I thought. "Is this some book written for third graders to help them with their writing? Is this some fun way to teach writing through comics?"
And then I looked down at those three mice again. They were wearing sunglasses. They were apparently The Three Blind Mice.
They were talking to each other.
And this is what they said:

"I want to be a writer..."
"You can't be a writer... you are a mouse!"
"I can too be a writer, I just read this book."

When I saw that one mouse saying "I want to be a writer," I kind of freaked out.

"Wait," I said. "We didn't talk about this. He doesn't know that I'm writing a book. He doesn't know that I write a blog. He doesn't know that I'm feeling like I'm becoming my mom by being a writer. He doesn't know that I'm discovering this about myself, that maybe I am a writer, that I am a writer."

I thought back to the conversation we had at intermission at the symphony two weeks ago. I replayed everything we had said in my mind. The only writing thing we talked about was the fact that my mom had written for the National Meat Board, the she had written for our elementary school's newsletter, and that she very much considered herself a writer. All I did was express surprise at this: "Mommy wanted to be a writer?"
I never said anything about me wanting to be a writer- nothing! At no point in that conversation did I say anything... about me!

But here it was, a book about writing, sent to me, by my dad.

And then I freaked out some more.

Did he find my blog a long time ago? Has he been reading it this whole time? Has he been following this entire saga of my life?
Did I read the blog on his computer when I was home for Christmas and not close it and he found it?

Or was he struck by our conversation at the Symphony? Did he realize that I didn't know this about my mom, intuit by my response that I wanted to be a writer too, and sent me this book to encourage me?

Or does he remember from when I was younger and actually wanted to be a writer? Does he remember telling me that I could write in the summers, that that was a perk of being a teacher? Is he doing for me now what he didn't do back then: tell me that I am a good enough writer to do this, to pursue it?

I flipped through the pages of the book, trying to figure out what it was about this book that made him send it to me.

And then I realized I could just call him, and ask him, "Thank you for the book- what was it about it that made you send it to me?"
But then I remembered that it was Thursday, which meant he was at Rotary, and wouldn't be home until late.

So then I sat down, and wrote this.

Part of me pictured him reading it- finally seeing that I knew that he had been reading my blog this whole time, and smiling at the clever way in which he had revealed it to me.
But part of me knew that wasn't likely- it was possible, but unlikely still.

So finally I looked in the book for the publication date. If it were a recent publication, it would mean it was a fluke- he just sent me something new and cool that he had read about in the New York Times Book Review. But if it were older (and the book appeared to be older- though it was hardback, it was a bit tattered), it meant that it was intentional- that he specifically looked for it, for me.
I searched the front few pages but couldn't find it. So then I flipped to the back jacket only to find my answer in not one but two places; the publication date: 2013 and the publisher's name: Antheum Books for Young Readers.

Young Readers, I saw.

"So this is a book for my third graders," I realized. "He sent it for them, not me."

I shook my head in amusement at this- at the story I had created.
But I also noticed myself in the story. I noticed how beneath this terror and confusion about my dad reading my blog, about knowing that I wanted to be a writer; there had also been a feeling of great comfort, of great care.

And that made me wonder, made me rethink, made me consider that perhaps I should tell him- that I should begin to share this part of me, with him.