First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines atOne miserable December afternoon, on a Toronto side street melancholy with mud puddles, I divorced my daughter. During a heated driving lesson, I surrendered my beloved to an uncaring world, and it broke my heart.When I was 17 and invincible, I sneaked out of my parents’ house for 64 consecutive nights to sleep at my girlfriend’s. Crossing the tracks to downtown, her hovel was my haven.
His 75 inches of imposing fatherhood shifted nervously. Sadness weighed down his impressive shoulders.Looking back, I remember this as his finest moment of parenting. My poor old artificial knee could not keep pace with the treasure hunt. Add a dose of my insensitivity to her plight, and we were catapulted to the doorstep of Hades. This wise and hormonal monster targeted me with her orthodontic smile, and blurted out: “Steven, let’s break up.”
Like Pavlov, she had just endorsed negative reinforcement. She had tried to impress the educator in me. It was a tactic to distract me from my own intensity.The lessons went well until we got to parallel parking. She forgot to check a blind spot on an almost empty cul-de-sac. I regarded this to be a heinous crime. Automotive treason. I warned her a million times. All I could see were the jaws of life in her future.
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