I learned more about Dad at his funeral than in the 27 years before it.

I learned more about Dad at his funeral than in the 27 years before it.

His friends told me how much they loved him -- stories about how generous, funny and caring he was. I was startled. Almost everything he had said to me was criticism. The man I remember was disappointed that I didn't have the work ethic he had.

When I was five or six, he opened a big cardboard box of workbooks he'd brought from Taipei. Saturday would be Math Day now. Sunday was for reading. I learned fractions that weekend as the neighborhood kids played outside.

I'd started piano around the same time. One day, my teacher entered me into a competition. Dad walked me to what felt like a late-night event -- but looking back, it couldn't have been past 4 p.m.

The contest dragged on forever. Finally, my last opponent fumbled an arpeggio -- and I won the trophy. As we walked home in the dark, he suggested I hide it under his coat to surprise Mom. It didn't work -- she saw the glow on my face before we were through the door. That walk home is one of the few times I remember us being close.

I loved comic books, and it turned into an expensive habit -- one Dad quietly financed. Within a year I owed him $65. He never hounded me for it. The debt just sat in my stomach -- I got nauseous just thinking about it. Then one birthday, without warning, he forgave the whole thing. I've never bought anything on credit since.

When I turned 16, he'd already decided who I was going to be. I told him I wanted to study piano. He said no -- electrical engineering. I refused. I didn't want his life. He told me it wasn't a question. It was a command. I gave in -- and struggled through every semester of it.

Dad was always critical of my accomplishments. When I graduated and escaped to finance, he told his friends I'd chosen a life of greed -- no contribution to society. Years later, when I took a pay cut to work in the Middle East, he told his best friend I was a fool to risk my life for a cause.

Nothing I did was ever enough for him.

Later, a friend of mine -- whose parents were killed by a drunk driver -- told me if I had anything to work out with Dad, I needed to do it now. "Because one day, it'll be too late." I'd never thought there was anything to work out. But the words sat in my head for weeks -- and so I tried to get to know him.

I took him to lunch every Saturday -- and probed him to talk. Afterward, he'd walk me to the car -- and I'd say an awkward goodbye. That was our routine, for months.

Then one afternoon, maybe sensing our time was short, he hugged me and whispered, almost too quiet to hear, "I love you." First and only time. A few days later, I sent him a text: "I heard what you said." Then I wrote the same words back to him.

He was diagnosed with cancer. It had spread to his lungs, his liver, his bones. The doctors said the best thing now was to go home and make the time count -- which is code for prepare to die. We had a month left to say everything we had never bothered to say.

His health declined fast. He became bedridden. And as I walked into the house I grew up in, the nurse said to me, "This is the moment." I didn't know what she meant. Soon, I did.

I sat on the edge of the bed. His mind was alert. His body wasn't. "I'm ready," he said. We looked at each other for a long time, without speaking. Finally I said, "You should have seen me, Dad. I was good at what I did -- really good." Another silence. Then he said, "Allen -- you would have been good at anything."

Dad passed away on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

At the funeral, I was surprised to find out he'd taken out a second mortgage to buy me that piano. He never told me. He hid his love to prepare me for a cruel world he knew too well.

Father's Day falls on August 8 in Taiwan -- and after all the years, the date still reminds me of how much of him is in me. Because of those math workbooks, I've come to think of our relationship as a bell curve. In my childhood, Dad and I were perfectly close. Then the gap widened from our differences and indifference. But fortunately, in the end, we again became perfectly close.

I was never as hardworking or driven as Dad was. But somewhere, deep down, I think there is a basic decency. That's the thing I'd thank him most for.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Miss you lots.