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Last night I wrote about how scared to death I was about the idea that maybe — even after everything I’ve done this month — I might not hit the 50,000 word mark by November 30, like I’m supposed to.

Then I woke up this morning, earlier than I had originally planned and looked at my calendar. November 29 meant I had two days left to crank out the 4,000-plus words I needed to type to finish this thing. But it’s also sort of a holiday for me. Today’s my Dad’s birthday.

I don’t say much about my Dad on this blog, especially when you factor in how much I say about my mother. I guess I take him for granted a bit, the way all kids take their parents for granted when they’re around. But my Dad is one in a million.

When I was 8 years old, I told my father I would be the first female president of the United States. He didn’t laugh. He told me to go ahead and make it happen. When I was 10, I told him I wanted to be a writer. He didn’t tell me that making a living as a writer is near impossible; he told me to make that happen too. When I was 13, I told him I was writing a book. He challenged me to get it done without letting my grades suffer. When I was 17, I wrote my fifth book. He bragged to his friends.

Then, when I was 22, I found myself jobless, in need of a place to stay for a summer after my internship at a magazine failed to turn into a permanent job. He didn’t tell me “I told you so.” He started calling me “roomie.”

That’s the thing about my Dad. No success is too big for him, and no failure is really a failure. He promised me once that he would always be there for me when I fall on my face, regardless of how old I am when I take the topple or how muddy I get at the bottom. When I first moved to Connecticut and tried to make a living wage out of a meager salary, he pumped $30 or $50 or sometimes $100 into my bank account almost every month when I’d call him to tell him my bank account was empty, as was my refrigerator and my gas tank.

All I had to promise him in return was that when I finally sold my first book someday, I cut my first check for a ski condo for him to spend his golden years by the slopes. I’d give anything to be able to earn a fortune and turn it over to him someday.

Will I? Who knows. Maybe I’ll never get the chance, but when I woke up this morning, I thought to myself, “You know what, Margaret? You can make a down payment on that today.”

So happy birthday Dad. I finished this book for you.

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