The pieces I share with you: my father rejected me, too, but for different reasons. I stood up to him. My brother insisted I come back to America because "my dad was dying." He would take years. We didn't reconcile. There was no great Moment. After he died, I got the call. Drove to the old folk's home. Slipped my hand under his body and felt the warmth as it slid, along with his pooling blood, into the sheets that would hold the last of his heat. I opened one of his eyes and looked at it.

I felt nothing.

I still feel nothing.

This was beautifully written, deeply difficult, and right for the heart. Thank you. Such fraught relationships.