Not my father. He did everything in a big way. Ifyou sent him to thebakery for a cake， he came back with three. Once， when my mother toldhim I needed a new party dress， he brought home a dozen.
His behavior often left us without funds for other more importantthings. After the dress incident， there was no money for the winter coat Ireally needed - or the new ice skates I wanted.
Sometimes I would be angry with him， but not for long. Inevitablyhe would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was soapparently an offering of love he could not verbalize that I would throwmy arms around him and kiss him - an act that undoubtedly perpetuatedhis behavior.
Then my 16th birthday came. It was not a happy occasion. I was fatand had no boyfriend. And my well-meaning parents furthered my miseryby giving me a party. As I entered the dining room， there on the table nextto my cake was a huge bouquet of flowers， bigger than any before.
I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father had sentflowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet l69 and I felt likecrying. I probably would have， but my best friend， Phyllis， whispered， "Boy， you're lucky to have a father like that. "
As the years passed， other occasions - birthdays， recitals， awards， and graduations - were marked with Dad's flowers. My emotions continued to seesaw between pleasure and embarrassment.
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