My father always said I couldn’t do it. Ironically, he was the one who pushed me to do it. I was a senior from Tiburon, South Carolina. Most kids were star football players or track runners. Not me. I was an introvert, someone who was pointed at during the rare times I walked the streets. I remember the night like it was yesterday. A humid August night, the kind where the air hangs around, refuses to budge when you move through it. I was in the garage, working on a new project that would come to dominate my life. My father came in the way he always did, a silent looming presence. “You’re still at this?” I didn’t look up. “Yes, dad.” “You know,” he slowly worked his way through his motorcycles and tables, “most kids your age would be playing football or hitting the town.” “I’m not most kids, dad.” His eyes flashed for a second. “Oh, I know. Who knows how someone stupid enough to join the military would have a genius son?” I finally turned up to face him. “What do you want, dad?” I could see in his eyes that he was drunk. The solemn expression didn’t change. “You know, there’s a festival down by the lake on Sunday. It’d be fun.” He trailed off. “What do you want?” “Might be some girls there, you know,” he gave me one of his rare small smiles. “Dad, what do you-” “I want a normal son! I want someone that people won’t point at me behind my back and whisper about,” he roared. The blue in his eyes grew sharper, the way they always did when he got angry. “I’m sorry I’m not normal enough for you, dad, but this is my passion!” I stood up, looking painfully lanky compared to his built frame. “Why can't you just accept me for who I am, what I like!” His grey grizzle flared out. “Why can’t you just be someone I can be proud of?! When I was your age, I was fighting Vietcong in the jungle, not tinkering away in pursuit of some damned dream!” He threw his hands in the air. “People think you're a nutcase who’s barely seen outside, and they look at me like I'm the reason!” “Shut up, dad!” He puffed himself up, now towering over me. “What the hell did you just say? I oughta-” I cut him off. “I hate you!” He stopped cold. The fury that dominated his expression a second before was suddenly replaced by the typical stoicness. He left without another word. Those three words are the biggest regret of my life. I moved away to California just two months later to go to Stanford. My mom always called or emailed me, but I never talked to my dad. I got the call the day before graduation. As soon as I got out of my robes, I was on a plane back home. I'm not ashamed to admit I cried at the funeral. When I was a little kid, I'd always admired my dad, a war hero who wasn't afraid of anything and who loved us with all his heart. As I grew up, my childish idolization began to crack at the seams under reality: my dad had a drinking problem. He was short-tempered. He had PTSD that caused him to have horrible nightmares. After that night in the garage, we grew distant for good. And that was what drove me on, through the long nights at Stanford, the failures, the setbacks. South Carolinians like to sit on their porches, drinking sweet tea and watching the clock tick away. It's no surprise that the passage of time is more thought about in sleepy towns like Tiburon, surrounded by farm fields. Time heals most wounds. Not all, but most. Time travel? I guess I'm about to find out.