Most people I know call their fathers "Dad". I always called mine Father, with a capital F. Why? I think because of the way he carried himself in life. "Dad" did not seem to fit him; it sounded too playful, like "Daddy". He was not one to play; but neither do I mean he was cold. Father was a joy to me, just to talk to. And talk we did, indeed.

Since his death three years ago this May 2nd, I learned that those who have been the coldest toward me in my grief; those who disliked my Father and really do act as though they are glad he's gone; these same are jealous. Jealous of our talks. Our laughter together. The way I, Baby, always looked up to Father. The way I always thought he could do anything; that no matter how hard the stone, he could always pull the sword from it. I still think that about him. I always will.

So why would they be jealous of that, a daughter's relationship with her father? They never let on that they felt this way toward me. Did I neglect them in some way? Did I fail to show them the same love as I showed him? Should I have neglected him instead? No. So what is it? Why are they insulted by my love for my Father? Maybe in writing this I'll come to understand; and maybe with understanding we can, God-willing, heal.