Every few weeks, my daughter, Yan Meijun, texts me a simple message:

“Dad, want to go on a drive?”

That’s it. No explanation. No follow‑up question. Just a drive.

The first time she asked was during her sophomore year of high school, after a long week of exams, group projects, and whatever quiet storms teenagers go through that they never fully explain.

She walked into the kitchen, dropped her backpack, and said, “Can we go somewhere?”

We ended up driving along Highway 1. The sky was a soft winter blue. The coastline shimmered like brushed metal. She barely spoke, and just nodded toward the ocean now and then, as if it were an old friend waving hello.

I asked once, “Do you want to talk about anything?”

She shook her head.
“Not really. Just… being here is good.”

That became the pattern:
A drive.
A coastline.
A silence that didn’t feel empty.

As an ABC parent in Silicon Valley, I was used to structured conversations, such as college planning, homework check‑ins, discussions about SAT prep, and internships. But none of those conversations ever made my daughter look as peaceful as she did staring out the car window.

When she left for college, I worried the drives would stop.

But during her first semester, on a random Tuesday evening, she texted me again:

“Dad, drive this weekend?”

She came home in jeans and a faded hoodie, hair tied messily in a bun. She seemed older somehow, tired but in the way someone grows tired from growing up too quickly.

We drove for two hours with no destination. She talked about a difficult professor, her fear that she had chosen the wrong major, and a new friend who “felt like a sister.” Then she fell quiet again, watching the redwoods flicker past the window.

Halfway through the drive, she said something so soft I almost didn’t hear it:

“Dad… I hope I can be this kind of parent someday.”

I kept my eyes on the road, but my vision blurred for a moment.

The truth is, these drives have become my anchor as much as hers.

They remind me that connection doesn’t always come from big conversations or carefully prepared advice.

Sometimes it comes from being there physically, quietly, and consistently.

Our children won’t remember every lecture, every scolding, every perfectly structured “life lesson.”

But they will remember the feeling of sitting in a car with someone who loves them
no pressure,
no expectations,
no tests.

Just presence.

And maybe that’s the purest form of love we can give.
A full tank of gas.
Two open hours.
And the willingness to drive, side by side, wherever the road leads.