I remember when I was a little boy my father didn't love me; he couldn't. He loved my older brother but he couldn't love me somehow, at least not in a way I could understand it.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
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.
When my mother and father fell in love, my mother's family would never accept it.
My father showed me so much love. He showed my brother so much love.
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.
I loved my mother and father.
I loved my parents... but that can never change the fact that my father's violence ruined my childhood.
I was brought up by my mother and my two sisters, although they're older than me and fled the nest very young, so I was technically raised as an only child, but I was very much loved.
I cannot remember a moment in my life when I have not felt the love of my family. We were a family that would have killed for each other - and we still are.
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.
When he was born, I looked at my little boy and felt an unconditional love I never knew was inside me. As he grew, and I watched him stagger about, squeak his first words, and turn into a beautiful little boy, that feeling did not change.