When I look back on my childhood, I always remember my father's stories fondly. He would always tuck me in at night, sit down, and tell me a fantastical story. They would always be full of magic, adventure, and bright lights.
When I was seven, I was forced to grow up rather quickly. It transpired my father's stories, which I had thought simply to be the result of an over-active imagination, were in fact hallucinations he was experiencing due to years of abusing hard drugs. My childhood was abruptly crushed when he shot a clown he mistook for one of his fantasy villains. Unable to escape, he was kicked to death by a unicorn he thought he saw.
In my mind, however, he is still the well-dressed, twitchy man who would tell me daily stories. I suppose it can be hard to look back on the past and see it as it really was.