Best 18 quotes in «father daughter relationship quotes» category

And we cried for the years we have lost to hate, bitterness and self-destruction.

For a father, a daughter is the most blissful and loving person on earth.

But many more daughters of distant fathers are unable to reach orgasm, or achieve it with consistency with any man. Indeed these daughters have the most trouble in bed: for them, affection and arousal are synonymous with rejection.

Christaki welled up as their father hugged his daughter. He looked away, not wanting to intrude on this private moment, a rare demonstration of paternal love.

Because this is Beth's fight, and that's what fathers do for their little girls,' he said.

I love you, Papa," I said. "And I love you," my father replied. "I have loved you every day of your life. I will love you for every day of mine and more. My love will never diminish, no matter how many steps you take throughout the world, no matter how many years you wander until your task is done.

Idealizing Daddy is grand when you're five; it's crippling when you're twenty-five or thirty-five. For if you still believe in Daddy's miracles, you may not believe that you can make your own dreams come true. Worse, you may not even be able to formulate them without his guidance,

I can be anything I want to be. Just wait and you will see. Only time will tell what I will be.

If father and daughter can manage to cross the finish line of her emancipation together- she accepting Daddy's flaws, he viewing hers as opportunities for her to learn and grow- the ups and downs of their relationship and mutual growth can prepare her for the ambiguities of life. The example of the father weathering his own emotional seasons can help the daughter weather her own.

Men were often far different in their roles as fathers than they were as suitors, the memories of which kept them, out of necessity, both vigilant and violent, and even in tender moments, to their daughters.

I put my hand on a bishop, my would be assassin, and thought of my father's heights when he won, how he galloped around. The depths of his despair at losing, I expected, would be equal to the peaks. He'd mope about, his face fallen and miserable, his posture stooped as if his back ached. I took my hand from the piece and leaned back in deliberation.

...no one knows better than I what a good woman your mother was. But she had a weakness for misery and it led to her death. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.

The good father does not have to be perfect. Rather, he has to be good enough to help his daughter to become a woman who is reasonably self-confident, self-sufficient, and free of crippling self-doubt, and to feel at ease in the company of men.

She hated him for all her might. She hated him for leaving her all those years ago, she hated him for all the stares he’d given her every single time – the one that you had with a stranger; emotionless and cold – she hated him for forcing her to stay in the house with all the nasty souls, she hated him because she simply hadn’t known him very well.

She stared up at him, and her eyes were so large they looked like blue mint candies. 'I get to stay?' 'You're damn right you're staying, and I don't want to hear another word of disrespect.' His voice broke. 'I'm your father, and you damn well better love me the same way I love you, or you'll be sorry.' The next thing he knew, he was grabbing her, and she was grabbing him, and all the bozos coming down the jerway trying to get past them were jabbing them with bags and briefcases, but he didn't care. He was holding tight to this daughter he loved so desperately, and he wasn't ever going to let her go.

She smiled at him, that same look of shared understanding, then reached in again to touch his hand, pinching his palm between her thumb and index finger. 'You OK?' 'I could be on fire, but seeing you would make it all OK,' he replied, his voice as brittle as a three-pack-a-day smoker.

Those who are close to us, when they die, divide our world. There is the world of the living, which we finally, in one way or another, succumb to, and then there is the domain of the dead that, like an imaginary friend (or foe) or a secret concubine, constantly beckons, reminding us of our loss. What is memory but a ghost that lurks at the corners of the mind, interrupting our normal course of life, disrupting our sleep in order to remind us of some acute pain or pleasure, something silenced or ignored? We miss not only their presence, or how they felt about us, but ultimately how they allowed us to feel about ourselves or them. (prologue)

You want something enough that you’re going to hurt, then you stay, and keep it.