Returning to Sacramento on a flight with drink and book in hand, one’s mind tends to wander to a time passed, and the vacant space off my hip.
Burying one’s father is an exercise in change, your old self, your concept of time, and indeed, the merit of what remains all flies out the window.
Very shortly, I will be a father. The only problem is, I don’t think I’m up to it. My partner has made the jump, but I’m unsure how.
In celebration of Fathers Day let’s honour two dads who as far less remembered than their famous children. Typical.
I’m two months into fatherhood, and what I’ve experienced is far different to anything I’ve assumed. The feelings of detachment, escape and love are as real as they are insignificant.
In the spirit of Father’s Day we’ve unearthed history’s example of sons not quite living up to the mantle built by daddy dearest.
After crossing paths with a father of my grandson’s generation, I was taken aback by the even split of parental duties. So, well done there.
Ingeborg van Teeseling sets out to dispel the remaining stigma and dated stereotype surrounding single-dad families.
With our new Step-Dad-PM Malcolm Turnbull here to stay, Sam Blacker wants to know when we should start calling him “Dad.”