My father was a man of love. He always loved me to death. He worked hard in the fields, but my father never hit me. Never. I don't ever remember a really cross, unkind word from my father.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
It's a complicated thing, knowing how much pain my father caused in my life and the lives of others whom I love, yet still holding love for him in my heart. No matter what he did, he was my father. He helped create the person I am.
My father died when I was 7. I was his favorite child, and he was my beloved father. I brought him along with me all through my life. Every elderly man has a bit of my father in him for me.
My father was a beautiful man.
I admired my father very much... at the age of sixteen. But now I see that he was a brutal and cruel man, - but not without remorse, and that was what tortured us, his alternations.
My father showed me so much love. He showed my brother so much love. He just, he had a rough life. You know, he grew up in a boys home in the Bronx. He didn't really know his own family. So I couldn't hold it against him that he didn't know how to parent. He didn't know how to be the perfect husband. But he loved as much as he could.
I never knew my father. He was never married to my mother; he was never a part of my life. It was just my mom, my brother and me.
I have lots of memories of my father. He was an incredible father. We all loved him to death.
It was my father who taught me to value myself. He told me that I was uncommonly beautiful and that I was the most precious thing in his life.
My father never once told me he loved me. I told him I loved him only one time - that was when he was sick. It was hard, the way he showed his love. I didn't understand what he was trying to teach me. Now I know, but it came too late for him to see it. After he was gone, I realized he was trying to strengthen my mind to make me better.
My father was a man of few words.