Alone, I prepared myself for my first concert in the fifth grade pulling my clothes out of the closet. My hands shaking, my stomach sickening. The floor creaks as I enter the room, the rapid taps from my father’s computer get louder as I approach him. My voice barely produces the words that my dad almost ignores. Disappointment forms two creases in between his two agitated eyebrows when I ask the question “How do you tie a tie?” The next words to exit his mouth are the words I’ve lived by ever since. I stare awaiting his response. The silence was long enough to wonder if he had even heard me speak. “Google it,” he says, then glaring at me signaling a prompt exit as he had given me the answer that he believes I desired. But now I understand my childhood of independence and how much better off I’ve become because of a dad who did not care.