When I was a kid, my dad sold his guitar to buy me a red bike for Christmas. I didn’t find out until years later. He just smiled and said, “The bike was louder anyway.”

Before prom, my dress zipper broke. I broke down. My mom, in pajamas and with a flashlight, fixed it like a pro — even added a secret pocket. I felt like royalty.

When I wanted to run, my mom ran with me every morning. She hated it, iced her knees in secret, and stopped the day I made the track team. “Just wanted to get you started,” she said.

For my first interview, my mom grilled me with mock questions and glasses for effect. I got the job — and found her good-luck note in my pocket.

After I failed math, my mom showed me her bad grades — and how she became an accountant. A year later, I topped the class.

My mom once cried on my wedding day. Years later, I discovered she secretly paid off my wife’s $48K debt to protect my future. Her love was louder than words.

Even odd gifts from my dad became priceless memories.