The Stories We Inherit

When I think about Father’s Day, I don’t picture ties or tools. I think about stories.

My father wasn’t a writer, but he shaped my narrative more than he knew. His stories weren’t written in books—they were carved into routines, etched in silence, and revealed in the rare moments when he opened a door and let you peer into the storm. He didn’t always say much, but when he did, it landed. Hard.

That kind of gravity stuck with me.

It’s probably no surprise that my fiction often explores the tension between what’s said and what’s buried. Between what’s known and what’s feared. Fathers, in one form or another, show up in every story I write—sometimes as protectors, sometimes as shadows. They’re never just background. They shape the stakes.

This week, as I put the final touches on Iteration, I found myself thinking about the kind of legacy we pass on—not just through DNA or tradition, but through the choices we make and the truths we hide. The quiet burdens we carry because someone has to.

Fathers often carry those burdens.

So today, I’m not just celebrating the man who taught me how to gut a fish or patch a tire—I’m honoring the man who taught me that silence can be sacred. That not all strength needs to be loud. And that the hardest stories are often the ones worth telling.

If a book or story reminds you of your father—or the father figure who shaped you—I’d love to hear it. Stories connect us. And sometimes, they heal us too.

Happy Father’s Day.

-Mike