119/365 12/18/2025

My dad wanted so badly to be a wise and valuable father. He’d come to me on Saturday mornings while I played video games in my room. Or sometimes would ambush me right when we sat down to dinner. 

“How’s things going? Any trouble spots? All your friends are safe and fine?” 

“Yeah, Dad.” 

But I could see the look on his face. His hopeful expression. The way his eyebrows raised, and his eyes would search my face, looking for anything he could use to start in on one of his “Value Tales.” That’s what he called them when I was really little. “Sounds about time for a Value Tale,” he’d say, and then launch into a convoluted story about some event that was maybe from history but also a little bit from the Bible? And he’d toss in a couple nuggets from some other kind of self-help book, and end up with a satisfied smile while I stood there blinking. I barely remember them from back then. Except they took way too much time. 

Still, I started to feel sorry for the guy. He just wanted to help. So I started making up stories that needed his advice.