There’s something about being a writer that makes people confide in you. Why tell a writer, who uses life as raw material, your deepest secrets? But tell me they do, and sometimes their secrets break my heart. 
I’ve known people who confided how much they hated their fathers. They had reason, they say. Several told me how hard life was with an alcoholic father. Others talked about how abusive their dads were, and some felt their father never gave them all they expected. 
One woman changed her name legally, so fervent was her hatred. She made up her mind to never speak to him again and never did. She didn’t even attend his funeral. 
I write about these unfortunate cases because I think about my dad all the time. He passed away November 15, 2003.
I realize, more than ever, that Dad gave me a wonderful life. I look across the years with the knowledge that I was loved and that I loved and respected my father. And I still do.

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