Over the past five months, my father and I have taken on the monumental task of getting to know each other. I’ve visited him once more, pulled into the driveway listening to “Almost There” by Michael Jackson, just to walk into the house and hear him listening to the very same song. In many moments, in person and over the phone, we’ve marvelled at how alike we are. We share similar tastes in music, art, and humour. We’re stubborn, but not hot-headed, and given to daydreaming as long as we can. We had our first argument, a miscommunication really, and once it was resolved I giggled and thought, Wow. I just had my first fight with my dad. A real fight with my real dad. He keeps calling, and I keep answering. He has a job and a smartphone now, but he doesn’t really know how to text. I just send him pictures of me, my home, my city, and I know he can see them, even if figuring out how to respond still eludes him on most occasions.