On my birthday, I had lunch with my parents at Mingoy's , where my dad was looking forward to having the paella and lengua. Unfortunately, these two things tasted much better in his memory. He seemed disappointed with the meal, but seemed intent on making up for it with dessert. As I headed for the restroom, I saw him hovering outside Cold Rock, looking curious. I asked if he wanted to check it out, and he obliged. We went in, and I read out the different flavors and the toppings he could put on them. It kind of took me back to my childhood.

When I was little, my dad would take me to this ice cream stall--perhaps it was the old Bun on the Run--and buy me some vanilla ice cream coated in chocolate syrup that magically hardened. I was so in awe of how the syrup solidified into a shell as it dripped down the vanilla peaks. It made me think that this particular cone was special, that I was being given an exceptional treat.

My dad and I aren't close--never were, not in the way that my mom and I are. Truth be told, part of me will always be somewhat scared of him. But I have fond memories of him taking me to play mini golf, of taking me shopping, of trading corny jokes with me as the two of us watched TV. We don't spend a lot of quality time together, but I realize now that he did make an effort--and he wanted each time to seem special, magically hardening chocolate syrup and all.

So as the dude behind the ice cream counter topped my father's cup of mocha ice cream with cherries, it made me smile. I paid for the ice cream and watched as my dad took a bite. And I realized--it's my turn to give him those special little treats.