One of the deepest memories I have of my father is when we would have breakfast together. We'd each pour a bowl of cornflakes and sit at the same table, but my father's mind would wander beyond our kitchen while I was in his presence. I called it "the Cereal Stare." It was a stare that I can easily picture even now in my mind. He emotionally left the breakfast table and was evidently chewing on the day's concerns at work. That look would overtake my father's eyes as his mind wandered to another country—a place of work deadlines, problems with a colleague, a crisis that had claimed his mind and heart, possibly even unfulfilled hopes and dreams. My father sat in this stare while I looked on, always an arm's length away but never invited into this distant land.

He rarely asked me a question. We discussed no topic. We would just sit and eat in silence. Now I realize the pain I was in—wanting so badly to connect to my dad, to be seen, to be noticed, to be loved by him. And I can also imagine the pain that perhaps choked his words: paying for college for my two older siblings, a conflict with an associate at work, trying to remember if he had actually returned a call that came in at closing time yesterday. Did he sit in silence because of a fight he had with my mom and felt at a loss as to how to make it right with her before he left for work?

It's uncanny how many people comment to me about the Cereal Stare, saying it was so descriptive of their families. We simply must learn to do more than eat cornflakes together and call it a family meal.