I’m 70, and My 97-Year-Old Dad Still Parents Me

During our nightly phone calls, he offers nuggets of wisdom that make me feel as cared for and guided as a teenager

Ellen Uzelac,

AARP

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Published June 09, 2026

an illustration shows an older adult woman talking to her father by phone in a split-frame visual presentation

Jon Krause

My dad and I have had a telephone check-in every night since I was in my early 30s. My first husband had died, and my father and mother wanted to make sure I felt loved.

I am now 70, Dad 97 — and it is a practice that remains a part of our every day, even now that my mom has passed.

A year ago, we began a gratitude exercise, telling each other what we were grateful for that day. Dad has started to lose his memory — he’ll be the first to tell you that — and it changed the caliber of our talks. Daily conversations that had become short and perfunctory are now robust, joyful and sometimes teary. Our relationship continues to deepen, and best yet, I feel parented again.

Just the other day, in a conversation about friends, he said: “No, Ellen, you’ve never had a lot of friends, but the ones you do have are solid.”

a photo shows author Ellen Uzelac and her father Milton Uzelac visiting the Massey Air Museum in Maryland in 2023

Author Ellen Uzelac and her father, Milton Uzelac, visited the Massey Air Museum in Maryland in 2023.

Courtesy Uzelac Family

And for some reason, he has started to call me “kid”: “Keep it up, kid.”

Ironically, for an elderly ex-fighter pilot who now relies on a walker, Dad is all about motion and moving forward: “Do the things that bring you joy, pleasure, happiness. Find fun. Hold nothing back.”

Dad — Milton is his name — lives in an independent apartment in an assisted living facility in Tampa, just 15 minutes away from my sister, Barbara.

Even as he loses his memory, he remains an astute observer. And his optimism and positivity continue to shine through, as revealed in these comments.

On dining with other residents: “We all have stories to tell, but we don’t get to that. Conversation stops, people look the other way. I try to help them. I don’t hesitate to talk to anybody. There’s such a mixture of people here. But they don’t mix.”

On watching a Ken Burns documentary: “He can pick a subject and go with it. When you finish it, you feel so fulfilled.”

On talking to a new resident: “She’s having a tough time transitioning. I enjoyed my conversation with her. She’s dealing with problems all of us are facing. No one really likes being here. We’d rather be with family. It was interesting to share different perspectives about the same issue.”

On signing up for a field trip to an aviation museum: “That will be like coming home. Can you imagine getting on a bus and going to an air museum? Wow. I’d love to fly again. It feels like I never left it. How lucky can you get to have that feeling still?”

I recently asked Dad what it feels like to not remember things that were once so basic: what he ate for dinner, who he sat with, what he’s reading.

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“I’m losing it mentally, and I recognize that. It’s not a big surprise,” he said. “It’s part of the aging process.”

Then, without missing a beat, he said: “You’re Gloria, right?” Laughter followed.

During the pandemic, when my freelance writing work shut down, I did a Q&A with Dad. I love my father’s voice, the way he expresses himself. Now and then, I share some of his touchstones with him just to remind him of a life well lived.

On lifelong learning: “It’s impossible to stop learning. As long as you’re breathing, you are learning.”

On the word "hate," which he has excised from his vocabulary: “It’s an extremely strong word. Why go into a situation with a negative feeling, a negative thought, a negative word? If we could exchange the word ‘hate’ with ‘love,’ we could build a better world.”

On attitude: “Attitude is the maker of everything. If you want to cry, cry. I feel smiling is a lot easier than crying.”

On getting old: “As the numbers grow higher and higher, there’s a recognition that there’s an end to this thing we know as life. You can cry about it or try to fight it, but that’s not going to change anything. Some people worry about it, others don’t. I don’t.”

A few months ago, I flew to Tampa to celebrate my 70th with my father and sister. We are a small family, just the three of us.

Dad needed to use the toilet at the restaurant, and I waited — and waited — for him outside the men’s room. He seemed tired, and I was worried. Finally I walked into the bathroom, spotted his walker and approached his stall. He was fine, just taking a while. Two young men came in as I was talking through the door to Dad and looked at me, puzzled. I assured them they were in the right place — I wasn’t.

I filled them in, including the fact that it was my birthday. As they exited, they treated me to a rousing rendition of the birthday song. One of the men said he hoped his daughter, a toddler now, would care for him the way I was caring for Dad.

Back at our table, I asked Dad what he was grateful for. He pointed at Barbara, pointed at me, and then at himself. “For the three of us to be friends like this is everything.”

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.

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