Everyone has always felt sorry for Dad, for as long as I can remember. “Poor Tom,” they’d say, “he must have the patience of saints to put up with your mother.” They would pity him as the helpless victim of an overbearing and crazy wife, which of course he was. But also, wasn’t he supposed to be the sane one and, as such, be the one to see her behavior for what it was?
This was very confusing as a child. Shouldn’t a parent’s instinct be to protect their children? I’d wondered on all the days when he turned a blind eye, or worse, ignored the abuse altogether.
But then again, maybe not. Because no one ever said, “wow, your mom seems nuts, are you okay?” It was just, “poor Tom, he is such a saint.”
I pondered these thoughts as I aimlessly wandered through the souk markets in Marrakech, trying to analyze my reaction to the hammam bath I’d just experienced. I’d never imagined they’d bring up my deepest mother wounds, ones I’d spent years trying to heal. But even more surprising, they’d uncovered the conflicting emotions I’ve carried for my father since early childhood.
On one hand, I’d tried to give him the same open-ended pass everyone else seemed to grant, but I also struggled with the opposite sense that he should hold some accountability in the path his life had taken, the choices he’d made and what happened in my childhood. These opposing feelings weighed heavily on me throughout my life in ways I was only now beginning to understand.
If everyone in our life thought my father was a helpless, blameless angel, a tragic victim of an insane wife, and they were people I trusted and looked up to, then how could I see him in any other light? And yet, it didn’t feel right to let him off the hook so easily, to pretend he was blameless in all of this.
But I also understood where this public perception of him originated. Nothing in his background could have ever predicted the man he’d become or the life he would choose to live. It made you stop and shake your head, trying to connect the random pieces, attempting to make it all make sense. Because it truly was mindboggling.
I paused to look at a child-size handmade woolen Rifi, a traditional pullover hoodie that I instantly recognized, pulled back to memories of me wearing one just like it when I was about seven years old. I remember my father telling me that he’d gotten it in Morocco long before I was even thought of. I’d worn it with such pride, having no idea what or where Morocco was. I just knew it sounded exotic, and me wearing something he’d brought back must mean I was special.
I smiled at the memory and shook my head no at the stall owner, who was eagerly anticipating a good haggling.
This is why I’d come to Morocco, I reminded myself. To connect with this part of my father’s past, to try and imagine him through the lens of the man everyone else seemed to see. In hopes I could try to get to know him, now that we’d suddenly been given a second chance. Because the truth was, I didn’t know how to have a father. I’d never really had a dad like that, I didn’t know how to be his daughter. But I was willing to try and learn.
My parents met in Chico, a small college town tucked into the agricultural belt of Northern California. Dad had just turned twenty—fresh-faced, with a Tom Selleck mustache and a full head of shoulder-length black hippie curls—ready to start his freshman year of college playing baseball. He rolled into town without a care, exuding an easy confidence, sporting his classic positive attitude and boyish good looks. He was the kind of guy who made friends without trying, who had a way of making everything seem effortless and everyone around him feel comfortable. So unlike the man I’d ever known.
He’d been the pride of his close-knit Catholic Italian family—the oldest son, one of six kids, and the star pitcher at his high school in Palo Alto. His childhood was a blend of structure and spirited chaos, the kind that only a big, deeply connected family could create. He grew up in a sprawling, well-kept home that was never quiet, filled with the constant hum of siblings, the laughter of friends, and the warmth of extended family. It was the house everyone wanted to be, in such stark contrast to my own upbringing. The home where the doors were always open, the dinner table was full and loud, and the phone rang off the hook. He was loved and adored by all who knew him, and especially by his mother and sisters.
His parents—cultured, well-traveled, and deeply invested in their children’s futures—had woven a strong sense of duty and ambition into the fabric of their home. They had met in Germany at the tail end of the war where they’d both been stationed, falling in love and marrying not long after returning state side. They both valued education, faith, and family, and believed in the importance of exploring the world. Their expectations were clear: their children were meant to be accomplished, well-rounded, and driven.
As the eldest son, Dad carried the weight of those expectations with a natural ease. He was bright, charismatic, and athletic, the kind of person who seemed to glide through life, always landing on his feet. From an early age, it was understood, Dad was meant for big things.
His father (who we all called Nono) was a successful vice president at a Fortune 100 company, a man who had built his life on discipline, quiet authority, and the unshakable values of his immigrant roots. His family had come from Southern Italy to Boston just a few years before he was born, bringing their traditions and an unrelenting belief in the American Dream. Dad said that growing up, Nono was the movie version of the Italian patriarch of that era, The Godfather. The reserved head of the household, who left most of the childrearing to his wife, preferring instead the quiet comfort of a well-worn armchair, a cigar in one hand, and a cocktail in the other as he watched football in the evenings. My memories of Nono would agree, he was not intimidating, just reserved and structured, preferring to keep to himself, especially if the 49ers game was on.
His mother (who we called Noni), by contrast, was a force of nature and my favorite person on earth. A college graduate—an achievement still rare for women of her generation—she believed in living fully and loved her family with veracity. She was the center of life in the Centrella household, the point at which everyone seemed to happily orbit. She had that “just dust yourself off and get back up” tough but positive attitude befitting someone who’d lived through WW2. For every problem, there was always a solution, one she’d ask you to identify before giving you her thoughts on whatever was troubling you. “You’ve gotta teach a man to fish,” she’d tell me whenever I’d come to her for advice. “So tell me, what do you think?” I credit Noni with helping me become a critical thinker, someone who isn’t afraid to ask questions, chart my own path, and explore the unknown. These are all traits she cultivated in her children and in me, with intention.
She was adamant about not dwelling on things you couldn’t fix or change, a woman who believed that life was meant to be explored, that her children should see and experience the world. She packed their lives with adventure, with books, with travel, and interesting conversations, intending to raise independent thinkers and high achievers. And she thought she had—until Dad met Mom.
Instead of heading straight to college after high school, Dad took a family-encouraged detour, a year abroad. He spent his gap year backpacking through Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa, making new friends at every stop. He slept in youth hostels and under the stars, lived on a kibbutz in Israel for a time, and learned to navigate the unspoken rules of each country as a foreigner. He immersed himself fully in every experience, attending Mass conducted by the Pope at the Vatican, pressing his forehead to the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, driving his VW van across Morocco, and getting drunk on cheap champagne in Paris. The tales I heard growing up about this trip are what sparked my own obsession with travel.
By the time he landed in Chico in the fall of 1974, he carried the unmistakable glow of someone who had seen the world, tasted adventure, and proven to himself that he could go anywhere and figure it out. He had left home as the sheltered golden boy, but returned a seasoned world traveler who still believed that things always had a way of working out for him in the end.
And then he met Mom.
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About the Author: Sarah Centrella is a keynote speaker, executive mindset coach, and multi–bestselling author known for teaching people how to create a clear vision for their future and develop the mental fitness to achieve it. She is the author of four books, including Think It, and has worked with professional athletes, executives, corporate teams, entrepreneurs, and organizations around the world. Book her to speak at your next event. Sarah is also a podcast host and the Founder of VIVIAMO.
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