A Man's Melancholy.

In reflection of his life, my dad confessed on his birthday, with great remorse, that he "sure thought it was going to turn out different."

Though the grief of the statement struck me immediately (much more so, I presume, than my mother, who probably either feels the same or lacks concern), I did not confront his sentiments. Especially for a man who is normally so selfless, if on no other day of the year, your birthday is when you are permitted to be self-indulgent and, apparently, made painfully aware of your short-comings.

I love him as a daughter is obliged to love her father (and, in the words of Cordelia, "no more nor less"), yet I felt tremendous disappointment in being a component of an unhappy existence. I wish there was more I could do for him, because his heart extends beyond its own limitations, but its boundaries do not meet another affection. He's alone at 51, in a house of people and dogs, and there's nothing I can do but allow him to grieve over the sacrifice and disassociation of his dreams but once a year.