I felt I must defend him from these grieving, angry women, because I could see what they could not: through the eyes of the son, the brother, the husband, the father I am. When I look backwards through my own life, I can see into his -- the years of being counted on, expected of, hoped for; bobbing in a sea of women's hearts, upheld but not always understood, held onto but never quite acceptable. To be loved by women was an honor my father lived to deserve; it was also a tyranny he had no desire to escape, except, perhaps, through drink. I knew what they seemingly didn't: how important they really were to him, and how much more important must have been whatever it was that made him "just give up." If that's what happened.
^^^	<---|--->	<|>