Good parents use the mistakes they did in the past when they were young to advice the children God gave to them to prevent them from repeating those mistakes again. However, bad parents always want to be seen as right and appear "angelic and saintly" as if they never had horrible youth days.
I work for a mom and pop business. They’re my mom and pop, and by work I mean they give me an allowance. But that’ll end soon. By age 30, in just a few months, they said it’d be time for me to earn a living. I guess that means they’ll want me to start mowing the lawn.
As long as you don't tell your father that I seduced you, tied you to my bed and made love to you, then treated you like my personal sex slave, I'll probably make it through the meeting alive. Explaining dominant behavior isn't exactly easy. I'll be lucky if he doesn't kill me.
As he wasforced to tell his father more than once, “I said I’d fight for my mother’sthrone. I never said I’d die for it.” Then he’d add, simply to annoy the oldbastard into one of his frothy temper tantrums, “Don’t you think I’m toopretty to die?
During the last week of her father's life, Blanca stayed home with him. 'I didn't bathe. I didn't sleep. I sat in the bed with him in the living room. And we were communicating all the time. I kept thinking, and it's more beautiful in Spanish, but I wanted to bottle his breathing.
Could you love an alcoholic cruel father, or a prostitute amoral mother? You could never love them, because they do not give you anything, but take your honour instead. Neither could you, if your native land did so. Patriotism beyond egoistic interests is psychological disorder rather than sincere love.
I want my father to be just my father, the way he has always been, not a separate person with an earlier, mythological life of his own. Knowing too much about other people puts you in their power, they have a claim on you, you are forced to understand their reasons for doing things and then you are weakened.
I buried my father in my heart.Now he grows in me, my strange son, my little root who won’t drink milk, little pale foot sunk in unheard-of night, little clock spring newly wetin the fire, little grape, parent to the future wine, a son the fruit of his own son, little father I ransom with my life
There were a few other moves of his father's he could do without as well - the sucker punches, the ruffling of the hair, the way of pronouncing the word son, in a slightly deeper voice. This hearty way of talking was getting worse, as if his father were auditioning for the role of Dad, but without much hope.
A warm feeling fell over the boy. A mix of security and comfort, as if a blanket were wrapping its soft layers around his heart and nuzzling him snuggly. Gavin loved his mother, and he would be forever grateful to his father for protecting her. The whole mystery behind it made him itch with curiosity, however.
Fathers...Rise at dawn.Stand up strong.Fix and build.Plow the field.Carry the weight.Work 'til late.Encourage our dreams.Provide the means.Fight with might.Defend what's right.Protect the home.Refuse to roam.Forge the way.Take time to play.Spoil our moms.Keep homelife calm.And all becauseof selfless love.
The boy could see in his father's gaze a desire to be able, himself, to travel the world—a desire that was still alive, despite his father's having had to bury it, over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life.
Jacksonville was founded by a man named Jack. Jack’s last name wasn’t Sonville, as you’d expect. Oddly, Jack’s last name was Fatherville, but since Jack was himself a bastard, he found the name Jackfatherville to be offensive. Hence, Jacksonville was born—without a mother, I might add.
I have the solution to all my problems. I have money, position, the running of one of the country’s legendary cattle stations. I can even get the girl I want. I can’t buy her, of course. She’s got money of her own. But I’m pretty sure if I talk to her dad, he’ll give me the green light.
My father nodded. His nod was for me. Different. But not different at all. My father understood. Maybe he had known. Maybe he hadn't. It didn't matter anymore. He understood. I knew he understood, just from his nod, just from his eyes on mine, making his eyes kind for me, and the wave of pain went away for a moment.
