People who grew up with minimal affection often describe the same pattern in middle age: a delayed grief for something they didn’t know they were missing until they finally encountered it in someone else’s family
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A few years ago I spent four days with a friend’s family in a house outside Melbourne. On the second morning his daughter came into the kitchen crying about something small. A dropped hair clip, I think. Her father crouched down, put both hands on her shoulders, and asked her what was wrong. Then he waited. Actually waited, maybe fifteen seconds, while she found the words.
I took my coffee outside.
I stood in their garden, bewildered at myself. Nothing bad had happened. A man had been kind
I took my coffee outside.
I stood in their garden, bewildered at myself. Nothing bad had happened. A man had been kind
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