![]() Whatever the reason, my conversations with him now sound more like something I share with friends, complete with the occasional laughter accompanied by a bad word. Or maybe it’s because there are way too many “unli” promos, making it harder to find an excuse not to call or at least text every day. Maybe it’s because we now share a loss so great that we can hardly keep our other, slightly less significant sorrows a secret from each other despite distance. He admits that he finds it difficult, but he also tries to find solace in believing that I am happy doing what I do. And he tries harder to understand the stress I choose to inflict upon myself by going to protest rallies and working in far-flung areas, and having dates with friends in the most ungodly hours of the day. ![]() During our drives home I try my best to stay awake so I could talk to him more. I have made a conscious effort to text him more often, telling him about my day and asking him about his. These past two years, things have changed between my dad and me.
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