This is how I remember him: My father would wake up early, catching the train from our suburban home into downtown Chicago. He toiled all day in a tall office building on Jackson Boulevard, which I visited only once on a special Saturday. I recall the greenish hue of the train windows, the overflowing ashtrays, and the piles of papers on the brown desks. I can still feel the sensation in my ears as we ascended the elevator to the pinnacle of the Sears Tower during lunch.
Every evening, he returned home on the same 5 o’clock train. I would dash from the family room, through the kitchen, and into the dining room, racing to surprise him as he walked through the front door. I would embrace him, my cheek pressed against his trench coat, which carried the scents of cold air, smoke, and train exhaust.
After a brief moment, he would disappear into the basement, where I could hear the rhythmic thumping of his punching bag. I would watch him guzzle water from the kitchen sink, sweat glistening on his chin. Later, I would nestle in the crook of his arm, listening to his deep, resonant voice as he read me stories.
This was the life I observed: a routine, safe, and joyful existence. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned my father woke each day to a job he despised. I can’t recall if he ever said it to me just once or perhaps many times, but I can vividly picture him shaking his head, his blue eyes reflecting sadness, saying, “Never take a job you don’t like. It’s not worth it. Pursue what you love.”
As a child, my father had a passion for reading; he devoured books like Treasure Island, The Ted Williams Story, and Crime and Punishment, alongside comic books. He often read in his bedroom to escape the teasing from neighborhood kids. This love for stories, in all their forms—books, movies, music—has influenced me deeply. Conversations with him were my earliest lessons in storytelling: understanding structure, character arcs, and dialogue. I remember his amusement at the mundane discussions about weather in the film “Fargo,” recognizing it as a reflection of our innate need to connect without needing grand topics.
While in college, my father contemplated majoring in literature to become an English teacher. However, a well-meaning counselor advised him to pursue accounting, pointing out his aptitude for numbers and assuring him of job security. He took that advice and soon found himself entrenched in a career as an accountant. Though he married and started a family, I sensed his disappointment at not following his true passion. If he had foreseen the years ahead filled with numbers and tax forms, he likely would have sprinted to a World Literature class instead.
Nevertheless, he did make a sacrifice. Our parents’ missteps often serve as strong lessons for us. We learn from their experiences, aiming to be better and happier individuals. It becomes our duty to carry that knowledge forward; otherwise, what is the purpose of our journey?
Guided by my own heart, I have consciously avoided any job that I would dislike. I have worked as a journalist, a political communications director, and an author, all driven by my love for writing and storytelling. I am aware of life’s brevity and the importance of crafting our own happiness. My father instilled that belief in me.
Now, as a parent, I recognize I will make my own mistakes, and my children will learn from them. They will understand the lessons I impart, particularly the most significant one: to do what you love. Those words will resonate through generations—my children, grandchildren, and beyond.
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In summary, my father’s life, lessons, and sacrifices have shaped my understanding of fulfillment and happiness. His wisdom continues to guide me, reminding me to pursue what I love and to ensure my children learn the same.
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