The gift was an afterthought, really. A small blue book, “All About Me,” was near the checkout lane, and I was shopping for a Father’s Day gift for my dad.

The year was 1998, and that spur-of-the-moment gift was quickly forgotten. Right after my dad passed away, I packed and sealed up a box with some knick-knacks from my dad’s room.

Last week, I unexpectedly came across the box in the back of my closet and decided to see what was in there. Underneath some knick-knacks, I found the book.

He’d filled in the pages.

Cautiously, I began reading the familiar, bold hand writing I hadn’t seen in over a decade, and it was as if my dad was sitting next to me again.

Like many young girls, my dad was my hero. My childhood memories are of a debonair man who loved to dance. It wasn’t unusual for my dad to take my mom’s hand and twirl her around the kitchen to a song only they could hear.

At family functions, I remember standing on his shoes as he led me around a dance floor, showing me how to anticipate if my dance partner would go to the left or to the right. We always finished our Cajun two-step with a dip and a bow.

As a teen, though, my dad was practically non-existent. His primary companions were his drinking buddies at the local VFW and Dixie beer. Over the years, my quiet resentment grew until I was barely speaking to him by the time I turned 18.

Seeing his eldest daughter leave home angry — and six more children seemingly ready to follow the same bitter path — my dad made the tough decision to stop drinking. He told me he was going to join Alcoholics Anonymous and live the rest of his life sober.

I didn’t believe him.

In fact, it was years before I accepted the reality that he did stop drinking. He stayed sober, and my bitterness slowly turned to admiration for someone who battled one of the toughest demons around and won the war.

Over the years, our relationship evolved into an honest friendship. I saw my father for the man he was, not the man I fantasized him to be; and by the end of his life, we were at peace with each other.

Two weeks before he died, after years of battling a cruel and debilitating lung disease, we had a frank talk about what he wanted at his wake and funeral.

That was a tough conversation, but the time for pretending was over. At that point, there were no illusions between us, the result of moving from a fantasy father to a flesh-and-blood dad and friend.

So when I began reading the book, I did so with curiosity as to what my dad thought, not looking for answers to life’s questions. As I flipped through the book, I smiled and sniffled.

I didn’t know my dad’s worst enemy as a teenager was someone named Frank, and I’d forgotten my father liked to cook.

On one page, my dad drew a self-portrait, and he did a pretty good job, down to his square wire-rimmed eyeglasses and his receding hair line.

Although my dad’s no longer here, this little blue book brought him back to me in richer hues and deeper colors.

For some, it might not matter what color their father considered his favorite. After all, that’s a minor detail when one considers what a father might believe about religion or politics.

But to me, those little things matter.

My dad’s favorite color was blue.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.