Fatherhood has nothing to do with the performance of some enthusiastic spermatozoa during a briefly pleasurable moment. It’s about this: Who has ultimate authority over your life? The question permits just one answer.
Dad, I know this comes too late but I’ll ask it anyway: Would it matter if I said, “I love you”?
You never smiled. You never cried. You were doing the best you could. Like I am.
Do not raise your sons to be your sons. They’re vaster than that.
While conceding that he is a lousy husband, the man says he is nevertheless a wonderful father. I ask him if he is honest. He says, “Sometimes.”
There’s a bit of a silence between us. Integrity is not sometimes.
Father, son, mother, daughter. These are roles, not souls. They are briefly played and impermanent. The impulse to fashion an identity from a role creates many problems.
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