My father and I did not have a perfect relationship or even good communication. I can’t attribute that to his thick Italian accent, since he spoke fluent English. “Daddy” (as I called him even in my adult years) was a hard worker, a good provider, a lover of fishing, music, and whistling; he respected God and his Catholic faith and was an honest businessman and a responsible family man.
Yet something vital was missing. I cannot remember ever knowing the joy and closeness of jumping onto my father’s lap and snuggling with...
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