In the process of growing up, I’ve experienced three key stages. For much of my young life, I believed, like most children, that my parents were always right. I never doubted it, never questioned the fact that only my mom was ever home or that my dad didn’t live with us. Eventually, though, I noticed that my family was different from those of my peers, and I asked my mother about it.

“It’s not normal that Baba doesn’t live with us, right?”

My mother responded carefully. “It is normal, because every family is different.” That was true, but somehow I knew that it was not the whole truth. Although I wasn’t fully convinced, I let it go, knowing that would be the only answer she’d give a seven-year-old. I knew my family was different, but, with my blind faith in my parents, I thought it must be for the best.

As I grew older, it started to become apparent that I lacked something that all my peers had. I began to think that perhaps the importance of my father’s work did not, after all, outweigh the void caused by his absence. This was the second stage of growing up: realizing that my parents could be wrong.

It was early in my teenage years that I noticed that my father was making efforts to reconnect with me. I, however, wanted nothing to do with him. I felt a knot in my stomach whenever I saw his grey bag in the car, because that meant he was in town and wasn’t working. In his bag, he’d always have an assortment of foreign snacks—the ones he bought while traveling abroad—for me to eat when I was in the car. It was his way of showing love. Whenever I saw that bag, I knew I could expect a call from my father. Sheepishly, he would ask me if I wanted to go for lunch and catch a movie, seemingly worried that he was imposing. Having no excuse not to go, I’d reluctantly agree. Begrudgingly, I’d put on my trousers, as my sensitivity to cold demanded, and don my glasses.

One Saturday morning, realizing that my dad was home, I quickly decided to leave my three siblings to deal with my parents. In a record time of five minutes, I managed to rally my friends to one of the pool parties we had every two months or so. The last one had occurred just over a month before, but these were desperate times. Within ten minutes of waking up, I was in the car on the way to the pool. Before I got there, I received the call I’d known was coming.

“Sean? Are you awake? Do you want to grab lunch and watch a movie?”

Feigning disappointment, I responded, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I already made plans with my friends. I’m almost at the pool.” As soon as I hung up the phone, I asked the driver for the grey bag and, smirking smugly to myself, had a snack. As I joined my friends in the pool, I was haughtily self-assured, knowing that I’d left all familial responsibilities behind, at least for a while.

That evening, still basking in the afterglow of my impromptu pool party, I thought about how much better my day had been than it would have been if I’d spent it with my father. This jubilation didn’t last, however. The sad reality of the emotional distance between my dad and me intruded upon my triumph, and my mood darkened. By refusing my father’s request to spend time together, I’d thought I’d both dodged a bullet and killed two birds with one stone—got out of lunch and had a pool party—but it suddenly dawned on me that he was shooting a gun loaded with love, and I was hurling cold stones back at him.

When I became a monk, I reached the third milestone of growing up: forgiveness. During my time in the temple, I had a series of realizations. When my father was only four years older than I am now, he began to prepare to become head of the family company. Before he could experience fatherhood, he had already sunk deep into a well of responsibilities—obligations that he could not abandon. His life is a juggling act. One ball: his responsibility, as the eldest son, to take over his father’s business. One ball: his responsibility, as a father, to provide financially for his family. One ball: his responsibility to his employees who depend on him. Finally, at the ripe age of 50, he was trying to pick up a fourth ball: forging a connection with his son. Standing in the temple, I relinquished the grudge onto which I had held for so long.

Everyone makes mistakes, even parents. I realized that the things about my father that had made me so resentful were products of circumstances over which he had no control. I’d been punishing him—I’d been punishing myself—for a situation we both wished were different. What, in the end, was the point of that?

I’d been ensconced in the temple for two weeks and yearned to see my friends, which probably explains why I awoke uncharacteristically early for a Saturday. I hastily dressed and got into the car, looking forward to a day of cavorting in the pool. As I climbed into the back seat, I saw the grey bag.

That day, I had lunch and saw a movie while wearing swim shorts.

As we walked out of the theater, my dad asked, “Why did you want to see that movie so much?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh. I noticed that you don’t have your glasses.”

“I know.”

We got into the car, and he put on a pair of glasses.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“Really? Yeah, I need them to drive.”

Neither of us had been able to see the screen, but it was fine because neither of us had been there for the movie. As we drove home, I realized he never had been.