The man who got hit with a brick on Father’s Day

You listened as she told you about the Father’s Day gift she couldn’t wait to share. You hadn’t seen your daughter this excited about doing something for you in ages. She was filled with the exuberance of a 17-year-old, just out of high school, part girl, part woman.

It was Saturday morning. She would share her gift for you that evening, because she would be leaving early Sunday to visit her chosen college in Boston. She’d miss you on Father’s Day.

Evening came, like many before it. You were busily working through the paperwork on your desk so you could make dinner, then leave for a movie with your other daughter.

“Dad, are you ready for your present?” she shouted a few minutes later from the kitchen.

“I’ll be right there,” you replied, and then promptly forgot that you’d said anything. Your busy mind pulled you a little deeper into its quicksand. A few minutes later, you heard her voice calling. “Dad?” Or was she calling her sister, “Kat?” You couldn’t tell from your office. “It’s OK,” you thought, immersed in your work; “I’ll be done in a minute.”

You emerged later, ready for her. Then the firestorm from your wife hit: Your daughter had to leave for a babysitting job; you said you were coming and then you didn’t. She had been waiting expectantly in the kitchen to give you your Father’s Day gift. You stood her up.

Your wife’s voice was filled with anger. Do you have any idea how dismissive it feels to be ignored—again? Do you have any idea how badly your daughter wanted to share a gift of love with you? What could you possibly have been doing that was more important?

Nothing. Not the life insurance forms. Not the email and paperwork. Nothing was more important in that moment than your daughter, and you lost that opportunity for connection. And with your apparent disinterest you carelessly tossed another dart into her heart. Once again, you reacted mindlessly, hurting without trying, sometimes without knowing. You were embarrassed and angry at yourself.

Like most dads, you try your best, parenting by trial and error—your errors become your daughter’s emotional trials.

You walked upstairs to talk with your daughter. She had no interest; she was tired she said and wanted to rest before her babysitting job. Her eyes were red. You made dinner. You couldn’t eat much.

You took your youngest daughter to the movie; a knot took your stomach hostage. On the drive home, you stopped to buy Father’s Day cards for your girls, to thank them for filling your life with joy and love. You put one on the seat of the car, for your oldest daughter to get early the next morning before she drove to the airport. You wouldn’t see her until she returned.

And the gift she wanted to give you? Maybe you’ll see it when she gets back home. You hope. She loves you; that’s how she’s wired. And she also resents you for the times you’ve failed her. You’re walking the march of an ordinary father; two steps forward, one step back. Sometimes one step forward and two steps back.

You’re taking life’s biggest test—bringing your daughters from womb to womanhood. But it’s not an SAT or bar exam. There’s no do-over.

The brick to the head woke you up. It came late. She’s moved out, moved on, to a family and career. Her desk is piled with busy work, her calendar full of commitments. You’ve worked through your pile; you have no desk in your room at the assisted living center, no email in the critical care unit as your heart shuts down.

You hang on until your daughter arrives. She sits by your side. You’re sorry, you tell her; you did the best that you could. You are so terribly sorry for every scar you etched into her heart like ruts in the freeway.

You ask her forgiveness. Your breathing becomes labored. You’re more present with your longing for her forgiveness than you were with her. You pray that she knows the depth of your regret. One more time you tell her: “I am so sorry. I have loved you since your first breath. Please forgive me.” Your eyes close. You wait for her response.