I am a father and I am a son. My father, Sid, lives with me and has since 2001. Back then, I was 34 and deeply resented this turn of events. People I knew assumed that somehow I had failed and had to boomerang back to live my dad.
This is the story our culture has come to expect. It is the child who fails. It is the father who is there to pick up the pieces and provide the safety net. It is the father who is always right. But, in my case, it was wrong. After suffering a heart attack, Sid ended up under my roof. I was the responsible one, I had the job, I had the mental abilities needed to keep track of the meds, the appointments and the bills. Why didn't anyone see that? Often, I found myself seething at what I took to be a false picture of myself as a failure.
Read the rest at AOL's ParentDish.
Thanks as usual to Gina Misiroglu of Red Room for putting me in touch with the AOL people. It's just one of the great ways she's bringing traffic to Red Room and getting attention for Red Room's authors.
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