My father was my mother’s second husband. Her first was an explosive, passionate, brutal man. My father was the opposite. I can see where his sulking quiet isolating fits of pouting would be a welcome respite to my mother. All thing considered.
My father’s parents were those people. Brutal. Barbaric. Abusive in every sense of the word. The fact that he never laid a hand on me or my sisters (his step daughters) speaks volumes for how determined he was not to become his parents.
He did not parent. He was negligent and emotionally vacant. But — he was never physically violent. And after decades of pondering one’s family of origin — you take the silver linings where ever you can find them.
May all their souls rest in peace.
And may you be surrounded by the love we all so richly deserve my friend. ❤