I do not have any memory of my father carrying me as a child. There are very few pictures of us together in any photo. We have very little in common because I fought to keep it that way. You see, my father did the best he could to have a comfortable life. I and my siblings were born into that comfort but slowly, from one economic crisis to another and with every bad decision in between, we watched the silver spoon corrode in our mouths and so I was angry. I was angry that he stood still and watched his children’s dreams go away. 

He compromised so often that I began to question his role as a father figure. We waged wars in our living room and did not care about collateral damage. My mother was often in the middle of it all. I was bent on becoming the exact opposite of him, so I started with the little things; sports selection, vocation, hobbies, and habits. I was being moulded into the niche anger created for me until I spoke about the anger that had formed a man so different from the 5-year old me and in that moment, I cried; not because I was hurt, but because what I ran from was what I desired. 

A miracle is not a dramatic event that causes change. It is the change itself. It might have been the tears that I shed or the fact I spoke out loud, but from that point, I made a decision to love my father without expectations, see him as human and trust God to bring out the best in both of us. My father and I are trying to have a functional relationship because we both know it’s not too late.