My father, like most men of his generation, knew little about being a dad. He came home late on weekdays. He spent his evening hours commuting home or at a part-time teaching job. On weekends, he paid bills. Sunday mornings, he and I would drive to the local bakery—together we would buy brightly colored Danish pastries for brunch. It was one of the few times during the week that I spent time alone with my Dad.
We spent so little time together. Each moment, however mundane, felt special to me.
Our talk, at the dinner table, was about school or activities. We had no language for... Read More