Opinion National Interest PoV 50-Word Edit

ThePrint On Camera Videos In Pictures

Society & Culture Around Town Book Excerpts Vigyapanti The Dating Story

More Judiciary Education YourTurn Work With Us Campus Voice

Opinion National Interest PoV 50-Word Edit

ThePrint On Camera Videos In Pictures

Society & Culture Around Town Book Excerpts Vigyapanti The Dating Story

More Judiciary Education YourTurn Work With Us Campus Voice

I don’t want to be my father

It's not a cruel thing to say. I don't want to be my father because I now see what he missed. I don't want to leave my daughter with a blank slate.

Back in the day, especially where I come from, fathers were not dads. They were certainly not friends. They were stoic, strict strangers with whom a direct conversation might arrive once in a lifetime.

Mine never did. One November morning, he was gone. There was no warning of what was coming or what would come next. I was 13, old enough to miss and mourn him, and young enough to still have memories of him, relive them in my head and, when needed, slide into them for comfort.

The only thing was, I drew a blank. I began my hunt for memories of him and kept drawing a blank. I knew he had been there all along, but my mind was unable to place us in a conversation together. I never dared approach him and he, perhaps, didn’t find any reason or need to speak to me directly. Clueless and in desperate need for something, I turned to my mother, but she too couldn’t produce anything that I could use as a portal to my childhood.

I kept probing my brain, poring over the few photographs for clues. Nothing. As time wore on and days turned........

© ThePrint