The first father-son story to leave a mark on me had Abraham, on God’s orders, preparing to kill his only son: “He bound Isaac and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. Then he reached out his hand and took the knife …” God then calls off the infanticide; a ram is sacrificed instead. It’s meant to be an upbeat ending but as a child the story terrified me. There I lay, on a pile of wood, about to be murdered by my Dad.
Freudians offer a theory that’s the other way about, with the son killing the father. And the Dad-Lit genre can’t help but have a strain of the Oedipus complex, as the old man is ousted and the boy takes his place. But grudging affection is common too – for a life well lived, or a man who deserved better, or a rogue whose faults are dissected and, sometimes, forgiven. Daughters offer a different perspective on dads, with Jackie Kay, AM Homes, Kathryn Harrison and Aminatta Forna among the pick. But when I came to write my own memoir, nearly 30 years ago, my perspective was that of a grieving son.
