My father is Malcolm Caldwell.
In 1981, he started Caldwell Freight with one rented truck.
Over the decades, it became one of the largest logistics companies in the Southeast.
Thousands of trucks.
Dozens of warehouses.
I have no idea exactly how wealthy my father is.
I’ve never asked.
Beyond a certain point, numbers stop meaning much.
I grew up in a large brick house off Peachtree Road.
Ancient oak trees shaded the front yard.
An iron gate stood at the end of the driveway.
My bedroom had a window seat overlooking my mother’s rose garden.
Her name was Celeste.
Before marrying my father, she had been a high school English teacher.
In many ways, she never stopped being one.
She read to me every night until I was twelve.
Corrected my grammar at dinner.
Planted her rose garden herself while the professional gardeners stood nearby wondering what they were supposed to do.
Mom was warmth.
Dad was work.
I believe he loved us.
But work was the only language of love he really understood.
He provided.
He built.
He made sure we never needed anything material.
But he missed dinners.
Recitals.
Parent-teacher meetings.
School plays.
Even the afternoon I broke my wrist in third grade.
