When I was maybe 5 years old I can remember standing in the kitchen, watching as my dad was getting ready to exit through the garage. I don’t recall ever showing any outward displays of longing for his affection or attention because I knew my efforts would be dismissed. But this one day my dad seemed to express an interest in me he normally didn’t share; he spent time with me in my world which he usually didn’t do. And as he was headed out the door I thought, here is my opportunity for physical contact (besides the spankings he so willingly delivered). I was terrified he would leave before I got to hug him and say goodbye so I quickly ran to him pleading, “Daddy, don’t go!” And what I got instead was the corner of a cutting board jutting out from the counter (it was built in). I was just its height and as I ran, oblivious, it jabbed me right above the eye (my coordination has always been terrible). My mother had to take me to the ER and I had to have stitches.
I never did get to say goodbye or give my father the hug I so desperately wanted. And it would be years before I would find my next opportunity for one. I had already learned my lesson.