Nothing made my father happier this year, I think, than when I unexpectedly handed him a hardcover of my book.

I told him I had a surprise for him. He said, “It’s a book.” I said, “Yes, I wrote it.”

He watched with me as my numbers rose on Amazon, and was my total champion. He has always been and wanted me to be a writer since he gave me a copy of “A Tree Grows In Brooklyn” as a child, likening me to Francie.

A fiction writer I’m not, but when he said, “Your mother thought this would have happened 30 years ago,” I felt good, not bad. It’s never too late to please your parents. Dead or alive, in my opinion.