At the age of 14, I was used to spending every summer away from home. I was always at some sort of sports camp, with relative’s or camping. This particular summer, I was going to spend a week at my grandparents’ house in Albany, Ore., by myself. They lived in a retirement community ­– not the most appealing place to visit for a teenage girl. Normally, my mom or my brother would accompany me to prevent the inevitable boredom. The plan was for my dad to drive me to Oregon, a five-hour drive, stay the night at my grandparents’ house and then leave the next morning.

At that point, my dad was just my dad: my softball coach, my math and science tutor, my breakfast maker and protector. As the drive started, I was only thinking about how awful the trip may be. I just wanted to stay home. The drive started off in silence because I did not know what to say. I had talked to my dad many times before, but this was totally different. I wasn’t asking a favor and I didn’t need help, so I had no clue how to start talking to my dad. I felt awkward, like I was meeting someone for the first time. We eased into the conversation with neutral topics like school and softball practice. Eventually, I opened up about my friends and a guy I liked at school. After a while, talking with my dad was easy and comfortable, as if we had been friends for years. As we were driving around Portland, we decided to detour. He showed me the house he grew up in, his old high school and all the places he had hung out with his friends. One story led to another, and I found out about my dad’s childhood and funny stories of awkward teenage years.

We became friends. It was something new for us. To this day, we still talk like we did on that car ride. Every night when I am home, I sit down with my dad and we talk while we watch “House” and split a small Symphony candy bar. It is our habit together. I would not take away that ride for anything because now my dad is not only my dad, but one of my good friends.