February 4, 2015
When I was 22, I moved to New York City. I’d just graduated from college and my parents agreed to support my first few months as I dove headfirst into the theater scene. By Thanksgiving, I was starting to get a footing and had some exciting gigs lined up for the end of the year. Then I got a phone call I’ll never forget.
“Daddy’s gone,” my mom said. I could hear the pain, love, shock and uncertainty in her voice. I couldn’t believe it. How could my father, at 49, be gone? All of the sudden, I felt the profound permanence of death. I couldn’t call him anymore. I couldn’t ask for his advice. I couldn’t give him a hug when I flew home for Christmas. My family had a massive, dad-shaped hole.Read more