My father told me a story almost half a century ago that still echoes in my ears. It was an expansive concept for someone not yet old enough for acne, but the cement was wet and the message set quickly. Considering the dearth of physical objects I have to remember my parents by, I cherish the intangible words all the more. 

"Lori, are you going after a short happiness, or a long happiness?" 

Even accounting for selective memory, my relationship with my father was pretty sweet. His means of discipline was to pretend to cry when I was being selfish. That whipped me back in line faster than any reprimand could. It is still more precious to me when I put together the pieces of his own upbringing. He was something of an afterthought, not especially wanted, at least compared to his popular older brother and beautiful sisters. His nick name was Lefty, and he was a city slicker. Coming to a religious boarding school for senior year cramped his independence. But it also recalibrated the course of his life. 

Short happiness. Long happiness. Over the years those four words have tipped the scales at many junctures. Marriage is more vulnerable when we measure it in immediate satisfaction. Certainly my father sacrificed a portion of his personal contentment to stay faithful to a wife with mental illness. He loved her, and he could not live under the same roof for the final ten years. But I have an inkling that in the wide sky of heaven, the sacrifice disappeared faster than a prepubescent pimple.