I faced the pity of my father. I think I would have much preferred it to be the wrath I had expected. But, instead, his eyes looked at me with sympathy. Not an emotion my father often displayed, and one that I did not wish to see again. The disappointment was still present. As much as he may have tried to conceal it, I could still sense it, but more dominant was an overwhelming sense of concern. Compassion. Even a hint of sorrow. He was hovering uncomfortably around me like he did not know how to act. This was not how we behaved around one another.
My father did not usually struggle to express himself. Admittedly, a man of very few words, but when something needed to be said, he was to the point. Cold and blunt. But, on this occasion, he appeared to be struggling. Alternating uncomfortab
