Our daughter Elle wished me a happy Swedish Father’s Day a few hours ago. It warmed my heart, of course.

But for me, as someone who never had a present father, Father’s Day is also a somewhat painful reminder of how utterly my father failed in that role, and perhaps that, in turn, this explains some of my own shortcomings as a father. But not just for me – but also for all the children from three of his four marriages.

My father’s name was Ernest, and his father’s name was William, but he was called Bill. I know I met Grandpa Bill when I was a little boy, but I have absolutely no memories of him.

However, I’ve heard fow tough Bill was, from several people especially towards his three sons: Ernest, Albert, and Aaron. He was particularly hard on my father, who, after his time in the US Army, chose to move to Sweden, write poetry, and learn about art.

After their divorce, my chronically bitter mother said that my father had become deeply disturbed by what he had seen and experienced while stationed as a journalist in France during World War II. That because he never dealt with what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) upon his return home, he was emotionally troubled and couldn’t function as part of a family.

It’s possible that’s how it was, and yes, that theory does help me a little when I try to understand why he left our family in 1969, just before I was about to turn 6 and my brother Tyko was 4 years old.

Even though it’s the most amazing and undoubtedly the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life, fatherhood hasn’t always been easy for me. Sure, I can blame some of my many flaws on the fact that I had two poor role models myself. And who hasn’t had complicated relationships with their parents?

But perhaps it becomes even more complicated for us guys when your father abandons the ship early on.

I remember how, as a young boy, I would feel envious of my friends and the relationships they had with their fathers. Especially when the dads seemed decent, and they looked like they were having fun together.

It was always tough to leave those moments because on the way home, I was reminded of the great void I had in my heart.

As I said, Father’s Day is complicated for me. But I wouldn’t be half the father I am to Elle if I hadn’t been lucky enough to meet wise and stable Charlotte. So, I’m more than happy to share this day with her.

The above photo was taken in the late 1920s along New Jersey’s Atlantic City Boardwalk (where the show Boardwalk Empire plays out). My father Ernest and his two brothers Albert and Aaron accompanied by their parents, my paternal grandparents, William and Jenny Raboff.