Coming from a family of just girls, my dad made it clear that he had never wished for a boys and that having three princesses was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. And still, whenever we need advice, we go to him, because, as we say to each other “he’s the best”. And it’s the best therapy: for him, I have Audrey Hepburn’s looks and Albert Einstein’s brain. And if things don’t work out for me, it’s just “because I’m too good”. Call it distorted reality, I call it love.

But when it comes to special occasions, I find myself in trouble. Despite having so many things in common and being able to talk about everything with my dad (from the origins of the Universe until the food in Buenos Aires), when it comes to presents, we never seem to choose the right present for him. The only time when I was sure that he would like what I was getting, was when I bought a copy of the Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries. But I can’t go on buying Bergman’s masterpieces and giving them to my dad for any occasion. After all, an occasion is only special if you make it special.

Like Father’s Day. For some, a commercial day, but for me, a great opportunity to tell my dad that I still think he’s the most handsome man in the world and that he will always be my hero. But words don’t make a present, so I better start thinking about another director he might like, and if I don’t find any, get my crafty side out:

Even if he doesn’t like it, he won’t have the heart to tell me so. After all, besides having Hepburn’s looks and Einstein’s brain, he thinks I’m as gifted as Van Gogh, so, how could this go wrong?