It’s been over 15 years since my dad died. I’ve now lived longer without my dad than with. I realized last night after watching Somewhere Between, a heart-wrenching documentary about four American Chinese adoptee teens (seriously, the best and most impactful $2.99 Amazon rental you’ll ever watch), that I don’t remember my dad saying my name, either to me or to other people. My dad died when I was 15. Like seemingly many dads among my generation of Taiwanese Americans, he was an electrical engineer. He had a Ph.D. He played tennis. He watched wrestling on TV. He hardly ever spoke to me, even when I was playing with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on the carpet next to his desk while he silently read the Chinese newspaper.

One day when I was in elementary school, I saw a classified ad in the newspaper for a computer. I called the seller. My dad deftly took the phone out of my hands and apologized to the seller, explaining that I was a kid, saying, “That was my boy.” This is the only memory I have of my dad talking about me to someone else. I have zero memories of being referred to as “my son.” I never overheard my dad tell a friend or family member, “Draven plays the trumpet,” or, “My son plays soccer.”

Before he died my freshman year of high school, I was getting ready to go to my first high school spring dance. It was the Sweethearts Dance the week of Valentine’s Day. As I fidgeted in my suit, waiting for my date to arrive, my dad said, “You look handsome.” It’s one of two times he ever complimented me. I just wish, more than anything, that he had said my name, even once. I wish he had said, “Draven, I see you. I love you, Draven. I’m proud of you, Draven. Draven, you’re my son, and I love you.” I wish. I really do.