The Gift in the Small Black Box

Back in 1986 when I was just five years sober and living in New York, I was sent a message that my father was dying of cancer of the brain. One weekend while he was still home, I realized that twenty-three years of carrying a resentment against him for walking out on my sister and me when I was three years old had gone on far too long. So I went to his home, walked into his bedroom, and spent two hours telling him what had been on my mind for so long. I felt that it was time to drop the bomb on him.