My father and I have always had a complicated relationship. It’s more than just the gap of one generation—we grew up in two very different worlds, each with its own mindset. We also process life in our own distinct ways. Sometimes, it feels like no matter what I do to make peace, I end up thinking I’m the one who’s in the wrong. But even with all the tension between us, certain memories of his kindness pop up in my mind, completely uninvited yet impossible to ignore.
One example is tennis. I was around seven or eight when my father first put a racket in my hand. I can still picture that aluminum Yonex racket, and later a black Kennex I used. My coach would call me “the chick” because I was so little and always scurrying around the court. Under my father’s watch, I got good—really good. He arranged for near-daily private lessons each summer. Eventually, he picked up a racket too, along with my mother. They weren’t wealthy, but they wanted me to have opportunities, so they often joined in the hobbies they introduced to me. My mom didn’t stick with tennis, but my father did. He even tried horseback riding for a while—something he really loved before age caught up to him.
Whenever he and I played tennis together, there was this competitive spark. He was never as technically skilled as I was—I had the benefit of lessons and youth—but he made up for it with pure determination. He could rally forever, which both thrilled and frustrated me. Looking back, I think I learned as much about resilience from his inability to give up as I did about tennis from my coach.
Years later, I tried to share tennis with my own children. My older son wasn’t too fond of it at first—probably because I pushed him too hard when he was little. But when he turned 18, he got interested again, thanks to some friends, and he asked me for tips. By then, I was calmer, more patient, and we found joy in playing together. My younger son, on the other hand, never really took to the sport. He had a short stretch where he made progress, but then he dropped it, just like he dropped piano. I’ve come to accept that each child finds their own path, in their own time.
One day, while my older son was practicing, I stood near the fence, gathering stray tennis balls and rolling them toward the net. Suddenly, I remembered my father doing the exact same thing for me all those years ago. It wasn’t about saving time or being efficient—it was just him being there, part of the moment. In North America, I see so many parents watch from a lounge or drop their kids off and come back later. But my father stood right there on the court, fully present. At the time, I didn’t see how special that was. Now, I realize it meant so much more than I ever understood.
Then, out of the blue, my son messaged me yesterday to say he felt lucky to have me guiding him. That one message lifted so many worries off my shoulders. For years, I’ve wrestled with guilt over the times I was too strict or lost my patience. But in that moment, I felt like maybe I hadn’t failed them—maybe I’d actually done some things right.
This morning, I called my father. It was Father’s Day back in Iran, and normally I’d wait until our usual Friday call (if I remembered). But today, I really wanted to reach out. He was in a parking lot and couldn’t hear me well, but he caught enough to know I was wishing him a happy Father’s Day. He let out this distinctive laugh—this triple laugh he does when he’s genuinely happy. It reminded me of the laugh he had when I was a kid, the one he’d give when he wasn’t trying to prove a point but was just enjoying life.
Afterward, I started thinking about whether he felt, in that brief phone call, even a fraction of what I felt when my son reached out to me. Maybe he got some small validation, realizing that in spite of all our disagreements and the times I thought we’d never understand each other, he must have done something right too. That thought made me appreciate both how complicated and how wonderful fatherhood can be. I hope I can pass on that same sense of belonging and love to my children, just as—strange as it might seem—my father passed it on to me.