Once again inspired to blog by the rolling scenes of a film, this time Last Chance Harvey, I wonder if everyone beyond the age of a child lives with deep regret, a pained memory that tugs on their heartstrings, a fork in the road where they steered right instead of left. I certainly do.

Does that, in of itself, make me human? Is that the singular thread that ties us all together?

Those who haven’t seen this slow-unfolding Dustin Hoffman flick haven’t seen the bruised, pulpy basket of apples that I picked some seven years ago, the you-can’t-win-kind-of-situation that ultimately led to me… losing.

You see, I am the product of a typical North American family. Two mothers, two fathers, a half sister and two half brothers. This is what I grew to know since knee-high to a grasshopper… or, in terms of age: 2. It always made perfect sense to me… until one day, it didn’t. The day I graduated high school, and I came face-to-face with that time honored tradition of dancing with my father(s).

Do I flip a coin? Draw straws? Play a mean game of One Potato, Two Potato?

For all those wondering, I split the dance into quarters. Step-father (who raised me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper… or, in terms of age: 2.). Mother. Father (who remained in my life… on weekends to start, then bi-weekly, then, monthly and on holidays and special occasions). And, finally, my grandfather.

Fast forward some seven years later, and I was faced with Unnatural Selection once more. The walking-down-the-aisle-dilemma. I didn’t want to break hearts (I had never done so before, why start now?), I didn’t want to leave anyone out (I had always been keen at sharing), but somehow I managed to do both. In one fell swoop.

What I wanted was for both the man who was responsible for creating me and the man who was responsible for bandaging my scraped knees to take the long walk with me towards my brand-new life. Somehow that vision imploded, and what I was left with was a father who kept his distance from even the boundaries of my wedding day. He never saw his only daughter in her wedding gown. Or, heard her say her vows.

Six years later, I wish I could give him that moment back. All of those moments.

So, thank you Harvey. I am much wiser for seeing it through my father’s eyes.