Daily Post #67

Last night, I had a dream so vivid that its emotional weight followed me into the daylight. In it, my dad—the man whose presence has shaped the air of our family since before I could remember—looked me in the eye and told me he didn’t really like my husband.

My husband, who has stood beside my parents countless times, was judged not for anything he’s done, but simply for who he is.

In the dream, I responded in a way I never have in real life. I told my dad that if he couldn’t accept my husband, he could stay away from all of us—me, my children, our home. The words landed like a slammed door, and I felt the ache of drawing a hard boundary where love and loyalty should live.

When I woke, the feelings swirled—anger, guilt, sorrow, confusion, and a strange grief for something I’m not even sure my family ever truly had.

The truth is, my dad is not an awful person. He’s a man who came from brokenness himself, carrying scars and habits from his own upbringing. He has his faults—yes—but also a deep, undeniable capacity to love in his own way. When any one of us has been down and out, he has shown up—helping financially, lending his time, and quietly stepping in when life knocked us flat.

Still, growing up, I learned that love in our family was often conditional—easier for those who agreed, who didn’t push back, who fit neatly inside the boundaries my dad drew. Those of us who stood our ground or thought differently often found ourselves at arm’s length. Over the years, favorites shifted—sometimes the oldest, sometimes the youngest—but always toward the ones most willing to bend.

And yet, when I look at our family, I see something incredible. I see a story that began when two young people fell in love. From that love came three daughters, who then grew our family into sixteen grandchildren. And now, as those grandchildren marry and raise families of their own, we’ve welcomed fourteen great-grandchildren into the fold—and we’re still growing. All of this—every birthday, every holiday, every family photo—because two people fell in love. As cliché as it sounds, it’s true.

I’ve tried, in my own small way, to hold us together—the oldest and youngest, the in-betweens, the children and the elders. I’ve tried to keep the thread unbroken from the tiniest great-grandchild to the parents who began it all. But somewhere along the way, I let go. I found myself adopting the same unspoken mantra I’d heard from so many: “If so-and-so isn’t, why should I?”

They say dreams are the mind’s way of speaking truths we can’t say in waking hours. Maybe my dream was my heart drawing boundaries I’ve been afraid to make. Maybe it’s asking me to choose a different kind of legacy for my own children—a love that doesn’t measure, compare, or withhold.

I don’t know how the story will end. But I know this: I want to carry forward the best of where we came from—the love, the resilience, the roots—and leave behind the patterns that keep us from fully embracing each other as we are. I want to be the parent who lets love be enough.

Just as we are.