A few years ago, my dad apologized for being distracted throughout my childhood. "I'm deeply sorry for that," he wrote. "I hope you always knew how much I loved you."
My dad didn't go into detail about what he was sorry for... He didn't need to. I knew. I remember.
But I remember something more.
I remember walking across campus to my dad's office every day after school for over a decade. Upon my arrival, I would find my dad sitting at his desk, surrounded by piles of papers and books. Although the empty chair sitting beside him was probably for a colleague in need of curriculum guidance or a college student seeking scheduling assistance, I always believed that empty chair was for me.
Dad would look up from whatever he was doing and greet me with a smile. Then, as if on cue, he'd place the cap on the black felt-tip pen that he used to grade papers or draft notes. The pen cap gesture was my signal. It meant my dad wanted to hear about my day. Sometimes I told him a few things; other times I went on and on about something exciting or dramatic that had happened at school. My dad would listen, nod, and sometimes add his two cents. Without fail, my dad would smile as if hearing about my day was the best part of his day.
This was the routine. From first grade through my senior year in high school, I had after-school chats with my dad. I can't remember a time when he said he couldn't talk right now, even when he was working on his dissertation, dealing with challenging faculty issues, or facing budget cuts. When I spoke, my dad was all there.
[For more of this story, written by Rachel Macy Stafford, go to http://www.huffingtonpost.com/...today_b_8054388.html]
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