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The year my father died was the year I learnt the most from him. It was the year that he and I were closer than we had ever been. If it had been a year earlier it wouldn't have hurt so much. But then I wouldn't be where I am today.
I guess all things happen for a reason.
The year started in argument between dad and me. I'd left university and returned home to the farm. It was a three-year course. Economics, Drama, Political Science. I'd lasted eighteen months. Dad's money, wasted. Fees, books, the nice flat he'd set me up with. He'd warned me off university.
"You're not going to learn anything by staying out all night and sleeping till midday."
Dad thought people could only succeed by beating the sun up every morning. It had never worked for me. I used to ride trackwork for dad before school, when he was still training. I'd struggle, bleary eyed, sometimes hungover in the chilly dawn, unable to share his enthusiasm.
"Best time of the day, Soph," he'd say, rubbing his hands together. "Up before the sun. You know what they say about the early bird."
No wonder all his staff left.
Source: HighBeam Research, The hand that feeds.(Story)(Short Story)