Today marks my 23rd Father’s Day without my dad. It gets easier, but it still stings. He died October 9, 2002 after suffering from a triple-A. The brutal Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm. He was in a coma for more than a week following his surgery. Then he was gone.

Sometimes, though, I stumble upon a sweet memory and it’s like he’s been here all along.

I found a letter in my treasure trove of papers and journals, and am so grateful I hung onto it. He handed it to me when David and I drove off in a U-Haul and headed South—to Albany, Georgia—in September 1995.

David, my fiancee, and I were leaving our families behind, embarking on our new journey as I took a job as a reporter-anchor at the now-defunct WFLX in southwest Georgia. We would come back in May 1996 for our wedding.

In the meantime, my father wrecked me, spilling his soft, sentimental side across the page.

It’s a beautiful note, jotted down on a piece of paper ripped from a yellow legal pad. He wished me “a lot of luck and happiness” as I started over in a new place. And in his classic Norwenglish, he recognized that once in a while, we—with our respective stubborness—had a little klask, or clash, but would forget about it the next day.

We did have our ups and downs. At times, that made my grief harder to navigate. But today, I’m reminded of the love that carried us past the conflict.

The line that melted me?

“When you got baptized, I carried you to the alter. Next time, we walk together and I give you away.”

While the note seemed casually written, the message was seriously read and profoundly received. He signed it, “I love you always, Dad.”

It’s been so long since I’ve heard his voice, hugged his neck, or walked down the aisle with him on my wedding day. But those words—underlined—fill me with a warmth that tells me they still ring true, and are more enduring than any angry words we ever exchanged.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you, too. Always.