Dad did always love me. He still does-or so he says on the rare occasions when we catch one another on the phone. He had his priorities when I was young, and now I have mine. I’m in jail, and my primary concern is my trial. I’m sure he understands. I always did.

My parents married when they were young and idealistic. I was only 2 when they gave up on their marriage and went their separate ways. I stayed with Mom. Dad probably wanted it that way, as he needed to “stretch his wings” (his words, not mine).

I don’t remember much of him in the early days except that he was my hero. I do recall the stories I used to tell the other kids about an important and powerful man. He used to fly in on a moment’s notice. I’d see him for a few precious hours. He drove flashy rental cars, wore expensive suits and took me to top-dollar restaurants. It enthralled me. This man was so big, so much larger than life. He was my dad and, in my eyes, the king of the world. I recently asked Mom how many monthly child-support payments he made in those years of absence. Her face drew into a tight smile, the kind that only painful memories can bring. She said she wasn’t sure, but she could probably count the number on one hand. I guess he had other things to spend his money on.

As I grew older, the visits became more and more infrequent, sometimes a year apart. Nonetheless, what they lacked in quantity, Dad made up for in quality-or some cruel parody of it. He flew in from Los Angeles, New York or San Francisco. He dropped names left and right, always on the brink of really big success. He remained my hero.

Such is the innocence of youth that when he called, always a few weeks after Christmas or my birthday, and told me the package I never received “must have gotten lost in the mail,” I believed him wholeheartedly. Until I was 13 or 14 years old, I was afraid to mail a letter for fear the same fate would befall it. But as the years rolled on, the truth about the letters and packages, the truth about everything, became painfully obvious. I tried for a while to stick my head in the sand. This wasn’t the same as learning about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

The road from realization to acceptance is a lot longer than it looks. I’ve been on it for the past five years, and I’m not all that far from where I started. “The past is the past” is a nice catch phrase, and one I’ve tried in vain to make myself believe. “Saying and doing are two different things” is another winner, but it’s easier to digest. My father and I have a hard journey ahead of us, provided we can find the time. There is sorrow in his voice when we discuss the past, and I know that if he had it to do over, he’d do his best to do it right. Second chances are few, and it’s much easier to do it right the first time. That’s become painfully obvious to me as I live with the consequences of my own mistakes every day.

Window watcher: My dad loved me as only a father can love a son. I don’t question that. But he was also a self-centered, egocentric s.o.b. who let me down when I needed him most. A part of me will always be that kid at the window waiting and waiting with his nose pressed against the glass. Knowing that if Dad said he was coming, he was coming; but waking up curled beneath the window, alone.

I don’t want to sit and cry about the scars his actions may have left. I’d like to believe the only real damage done was to our relationship. But I have a very a hard time letting people in. Trust is not an easy word for me to say, and it’s almost impossible for me to feel it. I learned a hard lesson a long time ago. It’s not one I’ll risk learning again.

Now that I’m older, ironically, the tables have turned. It’s Dad who seeks out his son, and it’s he who is let down. Not so long ago, we took a trip, my dad and 1. I was in trouble with the law, and Dad flew in from New York to help me. We drove from my grandparents’ home in North Carolina to my mother’s house in Atlanta. It was a gallant gesture, but neither of us could find our way around the wall that we’d built. We talked of business things, politics, a weakening dollar, you know, the important things. Eventually the conversation turned to the past, and at one point this baldish but still distinguished 43-year-old man looked at his 19-year-old son, who outweighs him by 30 pounds, and asked with tears in his eyes, “How did you grow up so fast? What happened to my little boy’?” I suppose I could have said something witty about absence or painful about time. But I looked at this man who was once my hero, and I saw the gray in what’s left of his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes. I understood his frustration at being unable to solve my problems. It was then I began to replace anger with compassion as I realized he was just as human, as vulnerable, as I.

I love my father, but looking in the mirror sometimes I get a little scared. We are just so damned much alike. Father’s Day is right around the corner. There are a lot of kids thinking about their heroes, and I hope a lot of heroes are thinking about their kids. Divorce is a painful fact of life and all too common. Probably there are many kids who don’t see too much of dad, and a fair amount of dads who don’t visit as they should. If I’m lucky, a handful of those fathers are reading this. Your kids will love you whether you make it or not; that is the nature of being a hero. But maybe you should take time to consider how important whatever else you’ve got planned is. We do grow up fast. Just ask my dad, or better yet, ask yours.