The most painful thing about having a lonely aging father is that he won’t let you fix it — he says he’s fine, he doesn’t want to be a burden, he insists the visits are too much trouble — and you spend years respecting his wishes while quietly understanding that the wishes are the loneliness talking, and the man underneath them has been hoping you’d override him for a long time
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It is a Sunday evening in London, and my father is sitting in his usual chair, in his usual living room, with the news on at a volume slightly too loud. The phone rings. It’s me, calling from Bangkok, as I do most Sundays. He picks up on the third ring. We talk about the weather where he is. We talk about the weather where I am. He asks about the dogs. I ask about the garden. Five minutes in, I say the thing I’ve been working up to all week: I’ve been thinking, Dad, why donR
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