In honor of Fathers’ Day, I, a lifelong feminist, would like to salute fathers everywhere and, in particular, my husband, son, stepson, and son-in-law. They are all awesome dads.

Partly I’m motivated because of a weird backlash going on right now against feminism. Some people say it’s about hating men. Nothing could be further from the truth. The feminism I fell in love with, back in the 1970s, was about letting people fulfill their dreams and potential without regard to gender-related cultural conventions.

Like letting men cuddle and nuzzle their children, and cry if they felt like it. Stay at home with the kids instead of working. We were slow to realize it, but I think we’re finally coming to understand how critically important fathers are to their children’s development.

My own dad was a complicated guy. Because of my tough homelife, and seeing Mom trapped by her circumstances, I grew up vowing never to be dependent on anybody. I started working at a very young age, and had strong ideas about women being able to support themselves. A feminist had been born, and my dad, overbearing and dictatorial, was responsible.

In more benevolent ways, he helped me develop into the kick-ass professional woman I became. He was famous for saying, “Any excuse is a good excuse.” Which meant, of course, that no excuse mattered. Thus, as I matured, I became embarrassed to make excuses. I simply delivered, a useful trait in life and work.

As I came into my own, Dad enjoyed hearing my stories of the corporate jungle, and my increasingly clever vine-swinging. I was his business kid. He was my first mentor. Much of my success is due to him. I still have his monogrammed briefcase on display in my office.

Dad passed on in 2008, just before the Great Recession hit. Which was a blessing, because he lived through such a traumatic childhood during the Great Depression that, like many of his contemporaries, he still indulged in scarcity rituals right up until his death. Like buying food in bulk, and keeping a gigantic freezer packed with meat and staples, even though he was only feeding himself and Mom.

It’s been almost six years since he died, and I’m embarrassed to say there are days and days I don’t think about him, and many days I think about him without any pain at all. But sometimes, like when I hear Spanish Eyes, a great favorite of his and the last song to which he danced with Mom, grief comes roiling through my heart like a blinding, dark, smashing tidal wave. It seems insurmountable. Incomprehensible.

How is it possible I’ll never see him again?