My father was a doctor who also loved history. In fact, apparently he had wanted to study history instead of medicine, but his father (my grandfather) had vetoed that idea. So he studied medicine, graduated at the top of his class, and built a successful career as a medical doctor. But his love of history never left him and I recall holidays spent visiting sites of ancient ruins, where he tried to teach us the history behind what we were seeing.
He was a widower with 5 children when he married his 2nd wife, who became my mother. I was his 6th and youngest child, born when he was already 48 years old. The child who, he told my mother in a letter written on their 10th wedding anniversary, would be the "comfort in our old age".
Except he died a few weeks after that letter was written, when I was 7 years old. My mother gave me that letter, when I was older. I still have it. It is the type of letter that makes me wonder if he knew that he didn't have long to live.
Today marks the 51st anniversary of my father's death. May his spirit rest in peace.