Here’s what I recall: My dad would wake up before dawn and catch the train from our suburban neighborhood to downtown Chicago. He spent his days in a tall office building on Jackson Boulevard—a place I visited only once on a special Saturday he took me along. I can still picture the greenish hue of the train windows, the overflowing ashtrays, and the heaps of papers scattered on brown desks. I remember the rush of air as we ascended in the elevator to the top of the Sears Tower during lunch—my ears popping from the pressure.
Every evening, he returned home on the same 5 o’clock train. I would race from the family room, through the kitchen, and into the dining room just to surprise him as he walked in. My arms wrapped around him, my cheek pressed against his trench coat, which carried the scents of cold air, smoke, and the train.
After a brief hello, he’d head down to the basement, where I’d hear the rhythmic thumps of the punching bag. I’d watch him gulp down water at the kitchen sink, sweat trickling from his chin. Later, I’d snuggle into the crook of his arm, listening to his deep, smoky voice as he read me a story.
To my young mind, this was life—routine, security, happiness. It wasn’t until I grew older that I discovered he woke up every day to a job he despised.
I can’t recall if he mentioned it just once or countless times, but I can clearly envision him shaking his head, his blue eyes clouded with sadness, saying, “Don’t ever take a job you don’t like. It’s not worth it. Do what you love.”
As a child, my dad was passionate about reading. He devoured books like Treasure Island, The Ted Williams Story, and Crime and Punishment, often hiding in his bedroom to escape the teasing from neighborhood kids. He loved stories in all forms—books, movies, music. Conversations with him were my first lessons in storytelling; he taught me how to craft a compelling narrative, consider the plot arc, dialogue, and setting. I still remember his joy at the quirky weather discussions in the film Fargo, highlighting our innate desire to connect—even when we have nothing substantial to say.
During his college years, my dad contemplated majoring in literature and becoming an English teacher. However, someone—a well-meaning advisor, perhaps—swayed him with the advice: “You’re good at math. Pursue accounting. You’ll always find work.” He took that advice to heart and became an accountant, marrying and starting a family that depended on him. I know he felt a sense of sadness for not following his true passion. But he didn’t purposely sacrifice his dreams for us; had he peered into a crystal ball and seen years filled with numbers and tax forms, he likely would have sprinted to a World Literature class instead.
In a way, he did make a sacrifice. The missteps of our parents often become some of our most profound lessons. We learn from their experiences, hoping to forge paths that make us happier. It’s our duty to do so, or else, what’s the point?
So, I’ve carved my own path and followed my heart, never once considering a job that wouldn’t bring me joy. I’ve worked as a journalist, a political communications director, and an author, all while being fueled by my love for writing and storytelling. My father instilled in me a sense of what really matters in life, emphasizing how fleeting it is and how crucial it is to seek our own happiness.
Now, as a parent myself, I’m aware that I’ll make mistakes, and my children will learn from them—just as I did. They’ll benefit from my experiences, but they’ll also learn the most important lesson I can impart: to pursue what they love. My father’s wisdom will echo through generations, reaching his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, too.
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Summary:
This heartfelt piece reflects on the life lessons passed from father to child, particularly the importance of pursuing what you love rather than settling for a job that brings unhappiness. Through personal anecdotes, the author shares their father’s routine, regrets, and advice, emphasizing how these experiences shape the next generation’s choices.