After Mom died, I began visiting Dad every morning before I went to work. He was frail and moved slowly, but he always had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the kitchen table for me, along with an unsigned note reading, "Drink your juice." Such a gesture, I knew, was as far as Dad had ever been able to go in expressing his love. In fact, I remember, as a kid I had questioned Mom, "Why doesn't Dad love me!" Mom frowned. "Who said he doesn't love you!"" Well, he never tells me." I complained. "He never tells me either," she said smiling, "but look how hard he works to take care of us, to buy us food and clothes, and to pay for this house. That's how your father tells us he loves us." Then Mom held me by the shoulders and asked, "Do you understand!"

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