I cannot show you every road, but I can leave you the compass I used to choose mine.
When I think about what I would like to leave my children, I realise that possessions alone are not enough. I would also like to leave something you can return to in your thoughts: a word, a question, a way of seeing other people. Something that might be useful precisely when I have no answer, when I am not beside you, or when I am no longer here to be asked.
A father may wish he could spare his children every disappointment. He may imagine he knows the best road because he has travelled one before them. But my experience does not allow me to live your lives in advance. I can tell you what I have understood; I cannot know everything you will encounter.
That is why I think of a compass. It does not hold the whole journey, and it does not promise an easy one. It can help you find your bearings when the familiar paths come to an end.
The roads I cannot choose for you
A map shows routes, distances and turns. It is precious when we need to cross unfamiliar ground: I would never want to confuse freedom with a refusal to learn or prepare. But the map of my experience is not the same as yours. Some of the possibilities open to you were never open to me; some of the difficulties you will face are beyond anything I could predict.
I might tell you which job seems safest to me, which choice puts my mind at ease, which person I feel I can trust. I will have a duty to speak honestly with you, even when we disagree. But I will also need to remember that putting my mind at ease cannot become the purpose of your lives.
I would not want you to stay true to the path I imagined for you at the expense of the person you could become. As I understand it, raising you should help you make choices even when they differ from mine. And asking for my advice should never oblige you to follow it in order to deserve my love.
What I would like to put into that compass
I would put honesty into it: the ability to call things by their proper names, especially when finding an excuse would be easier. I would put respect into it, too—the kind that shows in how we treat people who have nothing to offer us and those who do not have the strength to stand up to us.
I would put responsibility into it. Before you choose, ask yourselves who else will have to live with the consequences of your decision. Freedom is a beautiful thing, but it loses something when it means only “I do what I want” and leaves someone else to deal with everything we have neglected.
I would put in gratitude for the people who are there for us, care in keeping our word, and the curiosity to keep learning. And I would put in dignity: do not use people to get where you want to go, but do not let your wish to be good give others permission to use you, either.
I do not, however, imagine these values as a formula to be repeated. Honesty does not require cruelty, generosity does not demand that you erase yourselves, and loyalty does not oblige you to endure violence or humiliation. We need to understand how to honour these values together in real situations. That is where personal judgement begins, not where it ends.
We find our direction in the small things
Grand declarations are easy to recognise. Everyday choices are much less so, yet it is above all through them that a conviction takes shape. We can say that family comes first and then always leave the work of holding it together to the same people. We can call ourselves honest while hiding the very truth that would give someone else the chance to choose.
I imagine a simple example: you want to take on a commitment that will often keep you away from home. It may be a good opportunity; there is nothing wrong with wanting it. But the compass is also there to help you ask: have we talked about this? Who will take care of what I used to do? Have I heard real agreement, or have I simply interpreted a silence?
Or think of a job that pays well but asks you to deceive someone. The salary matters, as do practical needs: I do not want to be quick to judge people with few alternatives. Still, I would like you to recognise the cost of a choice even when it does not appear in the contract, and to look, as far as possible, for a path you will not have to lie to defend.
One question I would like to leave you is this: am I building something I believe is right, or am I just looking for a way to prove myself right? It does not guarantee an immediate answer. But it can interrupt the ease with which, when it suits us, we become so good at telling ourselves a convenient version of events.
Changing direction does not mean betraying yourselves
There will be times when you choose carefully and things still go wrong. Not everything depends on us. Having principles does not protect us from the unexpected, from loss, or from other people's decisions. I would not want to leave you with the unfair idea that anyone who suffers must have taken a wrong turn.
And there will be times when the mistake is yours. You may have trusted the wrong person, underestimated a difficulty, or persisted out of pride. In those moments, I hope you will not confuse staying true to yourselves with an obligation to carry on simply because you have already begun.
Changing our minds in the light of a fact we did not know can be an act of honesty. Bringing a project to an end when it is not viable can be an act of responsibility. Apologising and making amends can be a more meaningful way of honouring our values than defending an earlier choice at any cost.
A compass is not there to prove that we have never lost our way. It also helps when we realise we have drifted away from what matters. And asking for help at that point does not make our journey any less worthwhile: it means we do not have to face every difficulty alone.
Those who guide you can be wrong, too
This applies to me as well. I would not want these pages to become a way of having the last word on everything. They are your father's thoughts, not a certificate of infallibility. There may be things you see differently, and things that your own experience will help you understand better than I do.
If a piece of my advice does not convince you, I would like you to feel able to ask why, discuss it and put it to the test. And if my actions have fallen short of my words, do not feel obliged to pretend otherwise in order to love me. A lesson can matter even when the person offering it has not always managed to live by it as they would have wished.
I am not asking you to trust only what you feel inside. Our consciences can find excuses, too, and our convictions can be incomplete. Listen to people who know what they are talking about, look for the facts, and take seriously those who live with the consequences of your decisions. Talking things through with others can help us correct ourselves without taking away our freedom.
I would like a father's legacy to be able to grow in his children's hands. Something understood, discussed and improved when needed, rather than kept intact out of duty. It would be a lovely way to keep talking to one another.
What I would like to leave my children
My children, you are three different people. I do not expect these thoughts to mean the same thing to each of you, or to lead you to the same choices. I hope you can find something useful in them without having to give up your own voice.
When you do not know what to do, try pausing and asking yourselves a few honest questions: what do I really know about this situation? Who will be affected by my choice? Am I respecting myself as well? Is there someone I could talk to before deciding? You will not have to work out your whole life in that moment. Sometimes it is enough to understand the next step you can take responsibility for.
I would like you to be able to tell a difficult road from a wrong one: not everything that takes effort should be abandoned, and not everything that looks easy deserves to be followed. But I would never ask you to prove your worth through needless suffering. Take care of your joy as well, of your passions, and of the people with whom you can be yourselves.
If a choice takes you far from what I had imagined, I would like to be able to look at you without measuring your lives against my expectations. And if you find yourselves in difficulty, do not think you have to put everything right before you can talk to me. You do not need to arrive with a solution to deserve to be heard.
I do not wish to leave you a life already decided. I wish to leave you something that helps you decide, and the certainty that my love does not depend on how much you resemble me. If these words help you, even once, to choose more honestly, to treat someone better, or to ask for help without shame, they will have found their place in your journey.
— Papà