This weekend is not only Father’s Day but also my only son’s 36th birthday. Sadly, I won’t get to talk with or see either of them.
My father died when I was in my early 20s, but I’m proud to say I was his daughter, and those first two decades with him in my life were wonderful and enriching. My father was born in 1899, so I was a “late” baby, the only daughter after he fathered three sons, so to him I was “special,” although, since he was a “Victorian” father, I was strictly brought up.
