“I am ashamed of my poor dad”

It was an ordinary Wednesday evening. I can’t recall if it was hot or cold, sunny or cloudy, but I vividly remember it was a Wednesday.

I was with my dad.

My dad is tall but not noticeably so. His hair has more salt than pepper. In a crowd, he is unlikely to stand out — the epitome of an everyday man.

That evening, we ambled along the gravel path, our steps crunching softly, stopping occasionally to admire the simplicity of the park. We weren’t there for any particular reason, just enjoying the serenity, something we often did.

As we walked, I took note of the fellow visitors at the park. Couples walked hand-in-hand, dressed in trendy attire, laughing in a manner that seemed straight out of a glossy magazine. Individuals jogged past, sporting high-end athletic gear, earbuds snugly fit, lost in their own worlds. Young mothers with well-coifed hair pushed strollers, serving as chariots for their children.

A feeling of discomfort began to gnaw at me. I tried to shake it off, but it clung stubbornly, growing heavier with each passing moment. I couldn’t ignore it anymore; I was embarrassed by my father.

We were in a modest neighborhood, I knew that. We lived in a simple house, chosen for its warmth and proximity to nature. But as I observed the park-goers and then glanced at Dad, I realized for the first time that we didn’t seem to fit in.

I saw the creases in Dad’s clothes, worn from years of use and not fashionably distressed. The fraying of his jeans at the knees and pockets. The work boots he wore were scuffed, not stylish. His hands were calloused from years of manual labor, his face lined from sun and wind, not from lack of care.

I looked at him, and I felt a pang of shame.

My dad is an everyday man, yet at that moment, his ordinariness made him stick out.

Muttering something about checking the time, I walked ahead, pretending to be engrossed in my phone. I didn’t want to be seen with him, although there was nobody of consequence around to judge.

When I eventually slowed down, assuming Dad would catch up, I realized he wasn’t behind me.

With a sense of reluctance, I retraced my steps, my mind occupied with thoughts of how out of place he seemed.

But I was so wrong. Dad was standing near the pond, feeding the ducks, surrounded by a group of smiling children.

He looked up and smiled: “These little ones wanted to learn about the ducks.”

Suddenly, Dad was the most remarkable person in the park. As I watched him talk to those kids, I was no longer embarrassed by him, but by my own superficial thoughts.

“Ready to head back?” Dad asked with a smile that spoke of unconditional love.

“Yes, let’s go home,” I replied to the ordinary man, who was anything but ordinary to me.

***

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