It's hard to talk to dads sometimes. The roles we often expect our fathers to play—protector, provider—can make them seem impenetrable(不可理解的).That's how it was with my dad. He came to Canada at the age of ten and settled in an immigrant community. He was never much of a talker. He rarely drank, so we didn't get to see him loosen up after a few beers. He didn't tell stories about himself at the dinner table or when we went for walks in the park. He was a private person and seemed to want to stay that way.
Bringing up the many questions I had about life before I was born—his early hopes and dreams, loves and heartbreaks—let alone sharing my own feelings, felt like too much for us to handle. I didn't want to threaten the integrity(完整)of his hard shell. I had gotten used to it，and it made me feel secure.
But when my relationship and career took a hit a year ago at the same time, things had to change. I was facing serious questions about my own nature, and I wanted to know that he had faced them, too. I needed to know how he had found his way, because I felt like I had lost mine.
In a severe moment of desperation, it occurred to me that sending an email might be the key. An email can be crafted(精心制作)slowly and carefully. I could speak at a comfortable distance and give him room to adjust. He'd be up in his office—a comfortable place filled with bookshelves, dusty CD-ROMs and piles of old newspapers. I'd be at my desk in an apartment 20 minutes away.
So I wrote to him. I told him about my regrets and fears, and I asked him to answer, if he felt like it, and to share something about himself, something that would give me much-needed perspective on my life, especially on relationship and career.
Para 1:Two weeks later, his response showed up in my email box.
Para 2:I closed the email and started to cry.
