I wasn't one of the lucky ones who had a father around all the time when I was growing up.

I grew up in foster homes, finally having the good fortune to land in the home of a couple who I came to love as much as any biological parents.

My real father was the black sheep of the family. I saw him every seven years or so, when he'd stop by and drop off another new bike. But after my grandfather passed away, he taught me a lesson that has stuck with me for years.

My grandparents had lots of money, but my father did not. He spent most of his life as a transmission mechanic, moving from shop to shop. He struggled with alcohol and he just couldn't seem to shake his demon.

Whatever he did, Dad could never please my grandfather. In Grandfather's eyes, Dad never reached his potential, didn't take care of his responsibilities, never settled down.

But the one thing they did agree on was fishing.

In the summers, my grandparents would come visit and camp outside of my hometown of Clarkston. While I played on the shore, I could hear my grandfather lecturing my father on his shortcomings.

As the years passed, my grandparents' trips home became infrequent. The fall I was 18, my grandfather suffered a stroke.

I hadn't heard about it yet, though, and when I stopped by my father's transmission shop one day, he said nonchalantly that we should take a father-and-son trip to see his dad as he heard he was not doing well. He'd had a stroke, he told me -- like it was no big deal.

We both agreed to the visit, but sadly that trip never happened. A few months later, my grandfather passed.

I recall being at the funeral reception, and for the first time in my life, seeing my father in a different light. The man who'd never shown any sign of affection for his own children was devastated and heartbroken. It was a shock for me to observe.

As I stated earlier, my grandparents had money. So what I saw my father do that day filled me with something I'd never felt for him before: pride.

In the corner funeral hall, I could hear my aunts talking with disgust. My aunts -- like my grandparents -- had a lot success in their careers and had married well. I couldn't believe my ears as I heard them berate my grandfather. He'd left all of his money to his second wife, their stepmother.

They felt she already had plenty of money from her own family and they couldn't comprehend how they didn't receive his estate. They'd just laid their father to rest, and it all felt unreal to me.

Hearing them bicker, my father -- the one with no money and the one who was continually berated for not being successful -- got up from his chair.

He walked over to his sisters and their husbands, breaking into their circle as they talked. He was disgusted and upset that all anyone seemed to be concerned about was the money. He gave a nod and said "See those two fishing poles in the corner? Those are mine." He walked over to the poles, grabbed them and walked out of the reception, leaving the entire room in shock.

My father passed away in 2008 from cancer and on his next-to-last day of life I finally got to hear him say that he loved me. It had taken him more than 38 years.

I did learn one thing from my father: character matters. He could've easily been bitter about the money he didn't receive, but instead it was the moments he'd shared with his dad that seemed to matter the most.

And in the end, he shared something with me, too -- those two fishing poles.

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