In May of 2001, I received one of those dreaded phone calls no one wants to receive. My brother, Mike, called to tell me our dad was seriously ill and not expected to live. I was quite surprised by my feelings, because my dad and I hadn't exactly had the ideal father-daughter relationship. In fact, we hadn't kept in touch for years for various reasons, mostly because he had divorced my mother when I was around ten years old. He moved to another state and didn't seem to have much time for my brother and me. He missed our graduations, forgot birthdays and broke promises.

One Christmas, when I was about twelve years old, I truly believed he was going to "come to his senses" and come home to us. I sat for hours in our living room, facing the front door, listening to Bing Crosby croon "I'll Be Home for Christmas." I played that record so many times, I almost wore it out. I just knew that he would burst through the door any minute, loaded down with gifts for all of us, and ask for forgiveness. It was a scene I played repeatedly in my wistful daydreams. I made sure the porch light was on, so Dad could find our house. Of course, it never happened.

Even after becoming an adult, I still held onto some deep-seated sadness. I guess the little girl's pain inside me would never go completely away. But, I realized divorce is never just one person's fault and I began to feel differently about my dad. I wanted to have him in my life again.

I'll never forget watching a movie on TV entitled, Max Dugan Returns. It was about a grown woman's father returning to her life after years of separation, bringing outrageously expensive gifts, trying to make up for everything. The film had a profound effect on me. I wrote to my dad shortly after seeing it and it was the beginning of a slow road back to getting to know each other. Our letters, phone calls, and occasional visits were few and far between and usually only initiated by me.

As the years went by, I told myself I had forgiven him for everything, but I came to realize I hadn't completely done so. That happened after the time I went to Iowa to see him while he was in the ICU.

As he lay in the hospital bed, I held his hand and marveled at the softness of his skin. His hand was not the firm, muscular one I remembered grasping as a young girl. I felt tears roll down my cheeks as the emotions welled up inside me. I began to feel a love for him I hadn't allowed myself to feel in many years. It was at that point I thought to myself that no matter what, he still was -- and always would be -- my dad. I began to pray for his recovery and I asked God to give us more time together. He was seventy-six years old and I barely knew him. I wasn't finished with him yet.

As he began to recover, I realized I could laugh at his know-it-all ways and excuse his flirting with the young nurses. He had been married four times, yet here he was, a lonely old man.

After he was released from the hospital, we talked on the phone and e-mailed fairly often. He told me things that amazed me about those years he was away. He truly didn't know the hurt he caused us. He was so consumed with his own wants and desires, he really didn't understand the heartbreaking effect of his selfishness. It was very hard for me to understand why he chose to live his life the way he did, but my new-found forgiveness let me know I didn't have to understand it. I simply accepted it. I decided I wouldn't let the past stop me from trying to be the daughter my dad wanted and needed now. I wished he didn't live so far away, because I wanted to help take care of him, but it just wasn't possible.

Dad died the following year, a few days after Thanksgiving. I was saddened by his death, but also extremely thankful we had found each other and had reconnected.

When he and my mother divorced, she was so hurt, angry, resentful and embarrassed, that she scattered her emotions over and through our lives until my brother and I were as miserable as she was. Mother died years before Dad did, so she never knew I had come to terms with everything. I even forgave her for her self-pity during those years and for her lack of desire to see joy in everyday life. I never told her any of those feelings though, because she really wouldn't have understood.

A very wise friend once told me she believes part of our journey here on earth is to forgive our parents, whether they were wonderful, horrifying or somewhere in-between. I believe I have accomplished that. Being the joyful person I have become, I think my children won't feel the need to forgive me for any damaging emotional wounds. That would certainly be one of my proudest achievements.