Catherine Reitman My father died on Super Bowl Sunday. The night before, he had told me — in his signature style of sincere but “got places to be” — that he was proud of me.
He then went to sleep and never woke up. Today, four months later, we celebrate Father’s Day.I’ve always thought the purpose of Father’s Day was to give dads a nice meal.
An amusing gift. A few hours of praise and priority, before the wave of ordinary life crashes us back into our routine. But outside of a few hours of smiling, there must be a deeper meaning to why we celebrate the men who brought us into this world.
I’ve spent the last seven years of my career writing about the sacrifices and journeys of working mothers. Perhaps it’s time I take a moment to explore one man who shared this burden.
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