This morning at breakfast I noticed my husband Will’s hairline. Ever-so-slowly receding, it made me wonder how he will look when he’s in his 70’s. Handsome and distinct, I’d say.

Then my thoughts turned to my dad. He was bald ever since I can remember. But he was nothing like Will; my dad’s heart was hidden by his heinous behavior. What a shame. What a treacherous turn for a soul bound for love at birth.

Seldom but sometimes I saw the emotional and sentimental side of dad. I especially remember when I moved away from home at the tender age of 16. I was adept at recognizing that the abuse at their hands was real and unlikely to subside. My dad hugged me and cried when I left, lamenting, “It’s hard to grow up.” Mother’s response? Her car reversing in the driveway, she rolled down her window then coldly commented, “I’m going shopping.” Those matching bags and shoes took precedence over their daughter moving away from home. It’s called retail therapy.

These days I pause to wish I could miss my dad and long for his love. Admittedly, I look back on his life that ended on his 74th birthday, 15 years ago. I wonder if he’d escaped from my fiercely caustic mother, his kind and loving demeanor might have smothered her cruel ways that changed him from compassionate to cowardly. Yes, my child and adolescent Psychiatrist father never had the strength, and in later years, the stamina to stand up to her and protect me. To this day I cannot bring myself to return to his gravesite since the day he was interred. That day brought me to the realization that he made his own decisions that led to his demise. They just didn’t honor me.

But life has a habit of hammering on. And sometimes brings the fortune of love and belonging. It’s the sunshine after the showers.

This brings me to my Will. The antithesis of my dad, Will is the man dad never was. Will loves our children and me with a heart that overflows on a daily basis. Thankfully, due to years of therapy, I only have a love for our family and couldn’t imagine abusing our children or Will. Or anyone. It’s just not in me.

I’d like to think that I inherited the heart my dad originally had before it was tarnished and twisted by my mother. I cry at both happy and sad times, and although I was denied pets as a child, I break down when I see them abused. You know, I love to make up for all dad could have been. He showed me what happens to the human spirit when it is undone and then altered to become dark and ugly. My Will taught me how light pierces the darkness and opens the heart to joy and genuineness.

There are no metaphors to convey my heart after healing from my abuse adequately. But I see hope for your heart. Keep that spark kindled. Know that you do have goodness within what you were created to be.

You are here, and this blog is where hope can be found. It’s where there’s more than enough faith to fill your heart. And as for the heart of my sweet husband with the diminishing hairline, I’ll gladly take that. I’ll take it all. This man with a love that emanates from a place of unequivocal wonderment is beyond beautiful to me.