When I asked my friend’s little daughter what her father liked doing in his spare time, she did not hesitate. “Anything to do with me,” she smiled. I rejoiced for her but also felt a stinging sense of loss because my own father’s free time had rarely included his two daughters—and although he died long ago, I still puzzle over those early years.

He seemed mystified by the whole fatherhood thing. Back at home after a shopping outing with our mom, my sister and I would model our new outfits, praying silently for a compliment. Gazing curiously at the ruffled dresses, he would inquire, “Are they comfortable?” Sighing, we assured him they were.

Soulmates, my mom and dad had a smooth-sailing, storybook relationship that lasted three decades until her death. He continued to woo her even after marriage, showing up on Valentine’s Day with a heart-shaped box of chocolates and on Easter with satiny white lilies. He wasn’t one to dole out hugs and kisses to his children, so when I craved affection I went to my mom. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” I intoned, as I trailed her around the house.

Tom Viscardi, the author’s father, with Lorraine in his arms and her sister Rosemary by his side.

I secretly agonized over the prim and proper families in shows like “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver.” Were there really dads who wore tailored suits to work and sagely divulged life’s meaning to their children? Were there really dads who called their daughters “Princess?”

Kids can be terrible snobs about their parents, and I was no exception. Sometimes I was ashamed because my father had only a sixth-grade education, while my mother had a college degree. His passions were Cuban cigars, playing poker and betting on the horse races.

Try as I might, I could not picture Ward Cleaver poring over the racing results, nor could I imagine him chasing his kids around the house with his belt in hand. In my father’s case, the belt was merely a scare tactic, which worked famously. It must have pained him to frighten his daughters because he later showed up with comic books as peace offerings.

An unthinkable tragedy occurred when I was 25, when my mother was stricken with cancer and died four years later. She had always been the letter writer in the family, decorating her notes to me at college with tiny hearts and Xs for kisses. After her death, my father started writing letters on big yellow sheets from a legal pad, and he surprised me with his dry wit. For example, he inquired about the health of my large tomcat, Funky, and admonished me not to spend all the money he enclosed on cat treats.

In one letter, he proposed we take a cruise to the Bahamas, which intrigued me since we had never had a father-daughter outing before. Once on board, neither of us could have predicted my mother’s absence would be palpable. No matter where we went on the ship, it seemed we had forgotten something.

One evening I found my father, hunched over in a deck chair, weeping. I sat beside him, while he confessed how much he loved her and how devastated he was by her death. I took his hand, and in that moment, I forgave him everything. After all, we had shared a great treasure, since our hearts had their moorings in the same person—his wife, my mother.

Maybe he wore Bermuda shorts instead of Brooks Brothers, and maybe he never learned how to navigate the dizzying waters of fatherhood. Still, he gave me something immeasurably precious, deeply imprinted on my heart. He taught me about a fierce love that endures forever—and somehow that makes up for it all.