
Most fathers and their children don't run out of love. They run out of questions.
The conversation narrows, year by year, until it fits comfortably into the space between hello and how's work — and then it stays that size for a decade. Not because anyone chose it. Because nobody interrupted it.
This is the interruption.
Twelve questions, arranged as six movements. You each answer them alone, in your own handwriting, without seeing what the other person wrote. Then you sit down and read them out loud — one at a time, to each other's face.
That's the whole method. It is deliberately harder than it sounds, because reading your own words to someone is a different act from writing them.
Read. Answer separately. Read aloud. Let it sit.
It asks the question you've been carrying. You've had years of opportunities and none of them were neutral enough. Ask it at Christmas and it becomes a Christmas thing. Ask it in an argument and it becomes a weapon. A page on a Sunday has no occasion attached to it — which is exactly what that question always needed.
It shows you what they actually remember. You will discover you remember the same day differently. Not slightly — completely. One of you remembers the drive; the other remembers what was said at the end of it.
It makes pride specific. "You're a good person" costs nothing and lands nowhere. "I watched you handle that phone call and I couldn't have done it at your age" is a sentence people carry for thirty years. The prompts won't let you get away with the first kind.
It gets the fear said. The most common fear in this book, in both directions, is some version of we're running out of time. It's usually shared, and it almost never gets spoken — which is precisely what allows it to keep running.
It puts forgiveness on paper without waiting for an apology. You can put something down before the other person picks it up. The book asks you to name what you're releasing, and it tells you plainly that forgiveness isn't the same as deciding it was fine.
It turns intention into a date. Not I should call him. Not I should tell her. A name, a page, a signature and a date, in both handwritings.
It creates something worth keeping. Two sealed letters to be opened in five years. A five-year return that asks six of the questions again, so you can hold the two sets of handwriting side by side and see exactly what moved.
If your father has died, you can still use it. Fill in both columns yourself: his from memory, in the words you believe he'd have chosen. Fathers and children have done this and found it worth doing.
Dad in the Mirror tells the stories. The Companion Worksheet helps you work through yours, alone. The Father & Child Workbook helps you say it to the person on the other side of the relationship.
Read. Reflect. Write. Talk. Act.
Then come back in five years and find out which of you was right about what would change.
Two people. Twelve questions. One evening a week for a season, and a document you'll still have in twenty years.