My father and I are quiet people, we value our peace. Some view silence as hostility, coldness, but the silence within our house is far from uneasy. Oftentimes in the evenings, we slip off to separate corners of the house, so our time together is when we cook supper in the evenings, or when we make bread on the weekends. He teaches me how to balance the flavour profiles, and how the percentage of humidity affects the texture of the loaf. He’s been coaching me in how to properly knead dough and shape various kinds of loaves since I was eight and could finally reach the countertops. 
         Nowadays I’m mostly too busy to help with the breadmaking, but sometimes I come home to a house filled with mouthwatering, warm, yeasty air. On bread days, my father will often have some ready for me, waiting on the kitchen island. We will sit down together after I get home from school, with our fresh bread covered in melty butter and cheese, and our cups of tea. The bread is soft in the middle, and crusty on the outside, perfectly contrasted with itself, and perfectly suited for conversation. Sometimes we talk about our days, our lives, the future, but sometimes we just sit there, enjoying each other’s presence. 
         When the weeks get busy and the days get hard, there is nothing quite like someone you love sitting with you and forcing you to take a pause. Breathe for a moment. Allow your mind and body to rest, in a space you can call your own. And no one lets you call them your own like my father. He is my rock. He is a steady constant, of firm hugs and steadfast assurance. He is the quiet in my storm. Always has been, always will be. 
          He does his best to be a good father, and I do my best to be a good daughter. We don’t always succeed, but when we do, it feels like warm, fresh bread.