Passage 1

It's hard to talk to dads sometimes. The roles we often expect our fathers to

play—protector, provider—can make them seemimpenetrable. That's how it was with my dad. He was never much of a talker. He rarely drank, so we didn't get to see him loosen up after a few beers. He didn't tell stories about himself at the dinner table or when we went for walks in the park. He was a private person and seemed to want to stay that way.

But when my relationship and career simultaneously took a hit a year ago, things had to change. I was facing serious questions about my own nature, and I wanted to know that he had faced them, too. I needed to know how he had found his way, because I felt like I had lost mine.

In an acute moment of desperation, it occurred to me that sending an email might be the key. I could speak at a comfortable distance and give him room to adjust. He'd be up in his office filled with bookshelves, dusty CDs and old newspapers. I'd be at my desk in a basement apartment 20 minutes away.

So I wrote him a message. I told him about my regrets and fears, and I asked him to answer, if he felt like it, and to share something about himself, something that would give me much-needed perspective on both of our lives.

Two weeks later, it showed up in my inbox: a scanned, three-page hand-written document. Dad, a 68-year-old retired technologist and grandfather of four, had carefully considered my message, reached back into his memory and crafted a response—his history of love, longing, self-doubt, struggle and persistence.