He doesn't know he's my hero; he probably doesn't know exactly how significant he is in my life. It's ironic because, in fact, my life would be nothing without him. My father is a man of simplicity, just as I am. He's admirable for his patience and his intelligence. My father possesses every quality in the world. In my eyes, he's a hero, but he doesn't know it. The impression he has of me as his daughter is that of an annoyed one. As he speaks, my body language tells him I need him to be quiet and leave me alone. However, every word he says has such deep meaning. His lectures, that he thinks I don't listen to, have an impact on whatever aspect of my life he's talking about. His countless attempts to begin a conversation with me, without an interruption from me, are what I live from and how I've strived. This is to the father that always was, and always will be, my hero. And he doesn't even know it.