While squatting beside my father’s monument in Buffalo’s Forest Lawn Cemetery, and running my fingers over his name chiseled into the polished marble, my thoughts turned inward, seeing again his sharp blue eyes darkened by disappointment. I could still see the grim set of his doctor’s jaw in his final days, the same way it was when he had to impart bad news to a patient. It was my fault. Having me his only son, follow in his footsteps was his dream, as if only that could complete his life, as if only that mattered, and everything else counted for nothing.