I vaguely recollect a story, maybe from the Bible, about a son and his father.  The nub of it was the two occasions the son had cried when his father had hit him.  The first time was when he was a child and because it hurt.  The second time was when he was a young man and it didn’t, signifying that his father was now weak and dying.

I have a personal recollection which mirrors this.

I can’t recall the first time my dad hit me, nor any subsequent occasion.  But I will add that he was a good man and there is little doubt in my mind that I will have deserved it.

The last time he hit me, however, I shall never forget.

I’d have been about fifteen, I guess.  He’d hit me hard across the face.  It was undeserved and my dad knew it. 

He begged my forgiveness instantly and cried like a baby.

It was as though in that moment “the man” passed between us.