The most painful thing about having a lonely aging father is that he won't let you fix it — he says he's fine, he doesn't want to be a burden, he insists the visits are too much trouble — and you spend years respecting his wishes while quietly understanding that the wishes are the loneliness talking, and the man underneath them has been hoping you'd override him for a long time
It is a Sunday evening in London, and my father is sitting in his usual chair, in his usual living room, with the news on at a volume slightly too loud.
