For the author and her dad, love was never always spoken as “I love you.” Growing up in a home shaped by humor and subtle reassurance, they used “Like you a lot” instead—until her grandparents’ dementia brought the missing words into focus.
“Pops, I love you!” her 6-year-old daughter giggled as she launched herself into her grandfather for a bear hug.
He hugged her back with a playful eye roll and, with a slightly exaggerated “Oh yes, I love you too,” pulled her in for tickles.
The moment still makes the author smile. It’s the same goofy energy her dad brought when she was a kid—hugs. tickles. and an over-the-top silliness that never felt like a performance. He was the one who made the family laugh. He poked fun at nearly anything—or anyone—always lightheartedly reminding them, “Hey, there’s no slack in this family.”.
That’s also why their family developed a slightly different way of saying love.
Instead of “I love you,” the author grew up hearing, “Like you a lot.” It wasn’t meant to be serious. Most of the time it came after a chuckle, with a quiet wink. The words themselves weren’t off-limits. Still, at some point the family landed on something that felt just as meaningful—and it stuck.
Between her mom, dad, and brother, the author grew up with two different love languages. Her mom was openly affectionate—warm, doting, attentive, and sometimes a little overprotective. She wanted to keep the family close.
Her dad was laid-back, more cautious by contrast with her mom’s openness. She wanted them close; he wanted them to venture out. Her mom carried the heart. Her dad carried the humor. He didn’t say “I love you” in the way others might expect. but his version showed up in other phrases: “I’m proud of you. ” “You’re the best player out there. ” and. the author’s personal favorite. “I joined the Avril Lavigne fan club so you can get pre-sale concert tickets.”.
His love showed in the practical moments, too—when the author needed help with math homework or rides to practice. It showed when he made sure she had the newest phone or computer before any of her friends did, a big deal in the early 2000s.
It showed at her wedding. when she and her father danced to Train’s “Drops of Jupiter.” It wasn’t the typical father-daughter dance song. but it was one that played on the car radio whenever it was just the two of them—so it became “ours.” The guests may not have fully understood what it meant. but they did. Just like “Like you a lot,” it was something only the two of them truly understood.
For years, the author thought she understood. And then her grandparents became sick.
Her grandfather and grandmother both began battling dementia at the same time. Nana passed first. As her Papa declined, the family braced for what was coming. They made the four-hour drive to visit him at his care facility, determined to make the most of the time they had left.
That night, the author and her dad processed the weight of Papa’s final days over a few glasses of red wine. The conversation turned to her Nana. A memory stirred something deeper—something the author describes as pride—when her dad said, “You know, Nana’s last words to me were ‘I love you.’”
The author smiled. It wasn’t the first time her dad had told her that.
Maybe it was the wine poking at buried emotions. More likely. the realization landed hard: at the end of her Nana’s life. she wanted her husband to hear the words that had rarely been spoken out loud. When her dad said it. she could see how much it meant to him—not only because of how often he brought it up. but because of the quiet relief in his eyes.
In the author’s telling, his version of “I love you” mirrored the home he grew up in, where the words felt foreign. He often joked about how his mother never said it. And the humor, the author realized, wasn’t only humor. It was also a way of masking how much those words mattered.
Now, when her daughters get a playfully hesitant “I love you” or a surprising peck on the cheek, they notice what sits just outside their grandfather’s comfort zone. They’ve become intuitive in a way that still amazes the author. Like she did as a child, they don’t doubt how much he loves them.
“Like you a lot” may not sound like much from the outside. But that’s exactly the point, the author says. Her dad says “I love you” more now—even to her—but it’s “Like you a lot” that will always stick with her.
And, she adds, he’ll always know how much she likes him, too.
family love languages father-daughter relationship dementia caregiving grief words of affirmation humor