Dear Dad

I have spent my life seeking your approval. Even when you were dying I sat beside your bed, holding your weak and bony hand because, in part, I wanted you to think I was your good son, that I was there for you when you needed me. I remember a few nights before you died--the night I slept on the couch and you kept calling me every five minutes to bring you something to drink or to move your legs or something, anything. I didn’t sleep even for a minute that night. I was busy being there for you.

I am sorry that it took me so many years before I realized what was going on. I held such a deep resentment for you, for so long. That’s what the anger was all about. You thought I hated you. You used to say, “I know you hate me.” It wasn’t hate, it was resentment because I never felt I lived up to what you expected of me. Now I know that isn’t necessary. I would have been better off all along had I realized that sooner. I had nobody’s expectations to live up to. Nobody’s.