I awoke one morning filled with shame, the echo of women's voices, flattened in disapproval, still ringing in my mind. I realized I'd been rehashing the talk of the last few days in my dreams, and had somehow become the object of their censure, had become, in effect, my father. The reason was not far to seek: I was the only man in the house with my mother, my sister, my wife, and my daughter, and all that we talked about was how my father had let them down. And I thought, wait a minute. The man worked hard all his life, loved his family, loved to have fun and to give it as well. Is this all that's to be remembered of his life -- his drinking, his falling apart? His "giving up"?
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