Ultimately, I never let myself know him. What’s to know? Dads aren’t people.

He hugged me so tightly to his chest that I could feel his heart beating rapidly while he wept. Five o’ clock facial stubble scratched into my soft cheek as he whispered in my ear, “Am I good father?”

At 8 years old I could only think to nod my head and let my tears soak into his work shirt. A private humanizing moment between a father and his youngest son took place in the home’s room of seclusion — the bathroom.

That was the first time I ever saw my dad cry. Surprisingly, I didn’t realize my dad was a person until I was 19.

At that age, the teenage, parental-focused rage is subsiding. Conversations with parents take place more often than lectures and shouting matches. Slowly, a creeping suspicion sneaks into your consciousness that your parents weren’t out to get you after all.

During my first collegiate summer break, I applied for work at my dad’s place of employment — a steel mill. Working at the closest resemblance to hell on earth consumed my thoughts rather than realizing I’d be working with my dad. That realization finally hit when the stench of coffee jarred me from a deep sleep for my first day of real work at six in the morning.

Nothing made me more lethargic than the stink of coffee. My dad left its odor lurking about the house. Up to that point in my life, the reek of coffee reminded me of two things: it’s obscenely early and my dad already left for work.

Suddenly, I was part of that tradition. Dressed in a hard hat, blue shirt with my name on it, and steel-toed boots heavier than planets, I hopped in the car for the ride to work.

Barriers always kept my dad and me from discussing anything of relevance. Dating, religious ideas and basic personal information were a struggling dialogue between us. The main blockade in communication was manifested from the title I’d attached to him my whole life — dad.

I knew his character: responsible, quick to laugh, a temper saved for unique occasions, quiet and an endless list of words used to label one’s personality. Ultimately, I never let myself know him. What’s to know? Dads aren’t people.

In my first four hours of work at the mill, I must have been approached by strangers/co-workers with the phrase, “Rick’s boy, eh?” about 20 times.

They told me stories not about my dad, but about Rick. Hearing stories about Rick being drunk in Italy with that rag-tag crew caused my brain to overload. Each story I heard acted as a brushstroke on a nearly empty canvas that helped paint a picture of this man I’d lived with for 19 years — this man who is 50 percent of me.

Working at the same place as your parent is like the moon crashing into the Earth. These two worlds that you constantly saw and understood collide. A lifetime of watching parents disappear for eight hours a day numbs you to its absurdity.

I knew their companies, titles and job descriptions. But I never asked what they did at work, mainly because I accepted it as another part of their title as mom or dad — they work, whatever that is.

There I was, seeing firsthand what my dad did everyday for my entire life. But as I stopped knowing and started understanding what my dad did to support a family, life’s sudden simplicity made me nervous. Come here, get a paycheck, feed the family, repeat.

During the ride home I reflected on that day 11 years before when I found my dad hiding in the bathroom crying.

Earlier that day my dad lashed out at my older sister. My then emotionally and hormonally charged teenaged brother jumped to her defense and screamed, “Why are you always riding her! Just leave her alone!” Our father calmly turned and walked upstairs.

Teenage freak-out over — I went upstairs only to find my dad crying in the bathroom. Fear paralyzed me as if I’d unearthed a landmine.

One cliche tells you that, “You fear what you don’t understand.” During that ride home from work at 19, I understood. My dad is just a guy. He feels unsure and lost, like anyone else.

Three children awaited him at home with inhuman expectations. Instead of thanks for the minor details we’ll never forget — like rides to Dairy Queen in kindergarten after I got out of daycare — we hit our parents with grievances.

I comprehend why my dad needed an 8-year-old to tell him he is a good father. For some reason it took 19 years to realize this — and 22 to express it.

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