After two attempts, I finally passed the Bar exam. Before realizing it, I was behind the wheel heading to my father’s nursing home. A stroke had left my dad unable to walk, but his mind was as keen as ever. I always felt I was an embarrassment to my dad. He was a retired judge with a son who couldn’t pass the Bar.
When I arrived at the nursing home, I found him sitting outside in his wheelchair, eyes closed and head tilted toward the ground. I laid my hand on his shoulder. Dad raised his head and opened his eyes. He nodded hello as was his usual greeting to anyone who wasn’t my mother. I was so excited, the story of my triumph poured out of me like grapes under a press. Dad was quiet for a moment. I was nervous unsure of which way the conversation would go: His disappointment transformed into celebration or his dullard son finally catching a miraculous break.
“Perseverance made you a conqueror,” he finally said. My chest swelled as I held my head a little higher and fought to hold in a smile so powerful the world would explode if it were released.
When I arrived at the nursing home, I found him sitting outside in his wheelchair, eyes closed and head tilted toward the ground. I laid my hand on his shoulder. Dad raised his head and opened his eyes. He nodded hello as was his usual greeting to anyone who wasn’t my mother. I was so excited, the story of my triumph poured out of me like grapes under a press. Dad was quiet for a moment. I was nervous unsure of which way the conversation would go: His disappointment transformed into celebration or his dullard son finally catching a miraculous break.
“Perseverance made you a conqueror,” he finally said. My chest swelled as I held my head a little higher and fought to hold in a smile so powerful the world would explode if it were released.
