Father’s Day

good pic of DadI miss my father.  He was actually three fathers to me.  The first, a doting, loving father whose every step I made, the smartest, most handsome man who ever lived.  He could do no wrong.

As I grew up, he struggled under increased responsibility.  Uncomfortable with adolescent girls, he put up a wall between us, becoming stern, cold, and distant, feeling women should raise girls.  I resented what I saw as rejection, not understanding his reasoning.  He could do little right.

As I became an adult, we grew close again.  He was a loving grandfather, free again to love me.  I still miss him.