I often like to say that while my father taught me what kind of dad I didn't want to be, my father-in-law has shown me what is truly possible. But I continue to worry. Like a music critic who can recognize a brilliant melody but is unable to play an instrument himself, I question whether I'll ever be able to match Terry's virtuosity as a father.
Ten days after Bridgette was born, my wife awakened me early in the morning to tell me that my dad had died.
He'd been ill for a while, and the call came while I was sleeping.
My reaction to the news was instant: I wanted to hold our infant daughter. My father had never met Bridgette, and yet I felt compelled to have her close to me—pressing my lips against her hair and feeling the rise and fall of her small chest as Alene explained the details of Dad's passing. Why did I need to cradle my daughter in my arms as another chapter of my family story drew to a close? What was it about those images of the three fathers who preceded me—a clenched fist, a cold shoulder, a compassionate gaze—that led me to select this particular tableau as my own self-portrait? The answer would come four years later, as I again held Bridgette close, this time as we gazed at the sky on a warm summer night. "See that star?" said Bridgette, pointing to the brightest pinpoint of light. "That's Grandpa. I can find him every time."
