sometimes i wonder if it’s too late to become close with my father. are there too many years of awkward silences between us that we’ll never know how to be comfortable around one another again?

there was a time in my life when i could be content sitting with him, watching sports on television. i was the son he never had, living in a house with four emotional and sensitive women. i remember when i was very young, i would pinch his ears playfully, loving the softness of them, loving my gentle father who would play back.

times are different now. things are more complicated. words are constantly twisted. good intentions are masked by sarcastic and, oftentimes, hurtful comments. there has grown a wall of resentment between the two of us that i can’t tear down. it’s not only my pride that makes me reluctant to climb it, but also the uncertainty of his willingness to meet me at the middle.

maybe he does wish he had had a son instead of three daughters who reflect nothing of his own personality. maybe then things would be different, and he wouldn’t feel alone even among family. i wish i could have really been that son he never had; things might have been so different.