At the risk of calling down calamity on myself, I will say that I have been in three, or maybe two, car accidents in my life. (Knock wood.) The least serious was a minor collision in the parking lot of my office building on the afternoon of 9/11, when probably everyone in the United States was too upset to be behind the wheel of a car. I definitely was. The most serious happened when I was in high school, and a drunk driver blew through a stop sign at high speed, hitting the car in which I was a front-seat passenger.

Neither of those is the one that haunts me.

I was a child, probably about 5 or 6 years old, riding with my sister in the cargo area of my family’s station wagon. Everyone with kids and a station wagon let their kids ride that way back then—it was a long time ago. As I recall, someone pulled out in front of our car suddenly, and my father, who was driving, swerved to avoid a collision. I and my sister were thrown from one side of the cargo area to the other and back. In the process, I slammed hard against at least one window.

I don’t actually remember a collision, just the shock of being tossed like a rag doll. I suspect there might not have actually been impact between the two vehicles; no one in our car (Dad, mom, two kids) had any serious injuries, and almost certainly no one was wearing a seat belt (again, the times).

It’s the aftermath of the accident that has stayed with me.

What I vividly remember is that my sister and I did not see our father again for the rest of the day after we returned home. I remember my mother telling us that he was upset and wanted to be alone. That’s all. I think what upset him was the feeling of having not protected his family, though I don’t know if that is my imagination or something that my mother told me years later. I’m pretty sure we never talked about it with my dad.

This is the only memory I have of my dad ever becoming angry, and it saddens me that it sticks with me. He died within a few years of this incident, and I have few clear memories of him. But everyone who knew him described him as a gentle and kind soul, quiet, warm, caring, strong but with no need to prove manliness. It seems unfair to him that the one time he set himself apart from his children became one of my most vivid memories of him. I expect the uniqueness of that experience is one reason the memory is so powerful—but I wish I could remember laughter, hugs and fun instead.

On Father’s Day weekend, I’m missing two fathers—the one who helped make me, and the one I received as a gift when I married. My father-in-law was a special man I loved dearly and had in my life longer than I had my biological father. They’re both gone, and I feel their absence dearly. Every day, not just once a year.