The lavender dress was hanging on a window latch in my girlhood bedroom. 

I inherited the room upon the unexpected arrival of my little brother eight years after I was born. A small converted den, the room had French doors that opened into the living room.

Absent a closet, I sometimes hung my clothes on the latches of the open-in casement windows.

I had hung my new lavender chiffon dress there on the morning of my friend’s Bar Mitzvah. The evening party was to be a fancy affair. Because he was the son of a family friend, I was attending with my parents.

As I stood there, admiring my new dress with the smocked bodice that fell into a softly pleated skirt, there was a knock at the front door which was next to my room.

I never remember that first house we lived in having a doorbell. Visitors always knocked. 

I opened the door to an older gentleman who said he had a delivery for a Miss Patty Bunin. Wide-eyed, I took the small box he handed me and sat down on the living room sofa to open it. My mother appeared just as I lifted the corsage from its box. Next to it was a small envelope with a note inside.

“I wanted to be the first man to give you flowers. Love, Daddy.”

Stunned, I held up what looked like a bracelet with tiny purple orchids attached to it. I looked quizzically at my mother.

“It’s a wrist corsage,” Mom said, “for you to wear to the party tonight.” 

I had mixed feelings about my father. I loved him, but I didn’t really like the person he was. 

By the time he got home from work, I had on my new dress and was wearing the flower bracelet on my wrist, feeling very grown up for a 12-year-old. My father smiled when he saw it and I gave him a careful hug so as not to smush the orchids. 

His gift set a standard that I realized years later. When I was going to prom and my date brought me a corsage, I remember feeling disappointed that it wasn’t an orchid.

That story came back to me today when I saw the orchid displays in the market.

My dad and I were at odds on many issues. Most of the time I didn’t even bother to argue with him. But I spent a lot of time resenting him. Looking back, I realize that I erected a wall that did not allow in any good traits he might have had.

One of my gifts of growing older has been recognizing the possibility of softening hardened feelings. This year on Father’s Day I am continuing a tradition I started last year — I’m giving myself the present of allowing some good memories of my father. 

I might even buy myself a tiny orchid.

Email [email protected]. Follow her on Twitter @patriciabunin and at patriciabunin.com.

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