During my early years, I hated my father. I was afraid of him. I wished him dead. Later, my hatred turned to cold indifference.
Briefly, towards the end of his life, we almost established a reasonable father-son relationship. He died in 1963.
I still dream about him. forty plus years on. Not bad dreams. Not good dreams. Just dreams. We are not connecting. It is as if there is an unresolved issue, and it is too late now to resolve it. So the dreams just keep recurring. And they will keep returning, I am sure, until I in my turn am laid to rest.
My dad, your dad, all our parents: they are fallible creatures. Try not to judge them. I wish to god I had not judged my father so readily.
If only he were here at this moment, I would give him a hug.
But, of course, it's too late. It is always too late. Almost always.