He could be stubborn. He sometimes hid behind humor when a conversation became uncomfortable. He also had a thoughtful side that emerged when he stopped trying to impress anyone.
I learned that he wasn’t perfect.
Neither was I.
And perhaps that was the most important discovery of all.
Several months later, my father finally asked me to sit with him.
I entered the living room with my heart pounding.
He sat in his usual chair, his hands resting on his knees.
For a while, he stared at the floor.
Then he spoke.
“I was very angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I still don’t agree with every decision you made.”
I swallowed.
“I’m not asking you to.”
He looked up at me.
“But I have been thinking about something you said that night.”
I waited.
“You said you were afraid of us.”
His voice became quieter.
“I never wanted my daughter to be afraid of me.”
