My dad was wonderful. Ask anyone: His friends, his patients, his students, his family. He is my hero and my inspiration. I’ve written about him here before, but there’s one part of the story that I haven’t shared.
I disappointed him.
Growing up, I was my dad’s girl. We were bookish, inquisitive, and awkward in the same ways. I even looked like him. I have fond memories of reading the encyclopedia together, of Pizza Hut lunches on Sundays, of quizzing each other with my older brother’s SAT vocabulary flashcards.
I was in high school when things began to come apart. I was self-absorbed, deeply sensitive, and determined to establish an identity distinct from my parents. I was a teenager.
