Daddy's Little Girl Sally Chang

I used to be "Daddy's little girl." Because I dropped into the world in between my genius, future-Nobel-prize-winner sister and my attention-needy baby brother, my mom never had enough time in between attending math competitions on the weekends and juggling baby bottles at four in the morning. Thus, every morning, my dad was the one who stirred up Campbell's chicken noodle soup for breakfast and nudged me awake to watch Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.

I always begged my mom to let me tag along with my dad, and he loved taking me along with him on his errands. Sometimes I helped him pick out watermelons - he rapped the sides of each melon and we decided together if the sound was "just right." On lazy Saturday afternoons, I sat in the passenger seat, rubbing the dark crimson velvet with both hands, as we drove off to wash the car or check out a stack of books from the library.

My dad competed every year in the high jump competition at De Anza College. The night before, I always stayed up to decorate posters which screamed, "Go Daddy, go!" One year, he brought home the gold medal, which I fingered lovingly. When he noticed my awestruck eyes, he leaned down and pressed the medal into my palms....