I still study my dad. His face, his body language, his actions. The way he orders dinner in Greek. The way he tips the waitress for a crêpe. The way he responds to the strength of his coffee. I don’t know if I do it because I’ve always assumed one day I’ll be just like him or because I respect the man so damn much. Over the years I’ve gone from resenting him to barely bearing him to deeply respecting him. We can finally function in the same room. Most of the time. If politics are involved, expect the world to teeter on the brink of WWIII (more so than it already is, mind you). But we’re friends. I truly enjoy his company and insight.
I often wonder though, “is this the way it’s supposed to be?”
I think so. I have heard many stories of abusive fathers and I’m so grateful for mine. He never was abusive. Provocative maybe, but never harmful.
The more I look at my dad, the more I learn. About myself. About the world. About him. Some of it I like, a lot of it I don’t.
But I’m slowly realizing. My dad is my hero.
