I did not understand the weight of waiting until the day my father died. For as long as I can remember, I had lived by the rhythm of his arrivals and departures. He was a doctor, always needed somewhere else, always saving someone. He loved us, but his love arrived in brief intervals—two weeks here, two weeks gone. When he was home, his presence filled the room, yet there was a distance I could never cross. As a child I learned to wait, to hold my breath until he returned, to make myself smal...
