Pity the Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form

I've been reading a collection of short stories. The first story blew me away. I was like: "Woah, that story blew me away!" In this story, a Father and a son were on a walk. The Father, at the end of the story, wept. I was moved--blown away, really. In the second story, a Father and a son walked to a river. There, by the river, the Father wept, and again, I was moved. The third story, about a Father and a son, had within it, a story about a man who locked himself out of his apartment and rang the door bell, even though he knew no one was inside. Then, in this story within the story, the man cried, and the Father who was reading this story in the story, wept while his son looked on. In the fourth story, the Father wept. In the fifth story, the Father wept. In the sixth story, the Father wept. I was not moved. My father does not weep nearly as often as the Father within these stories. Once, I saw him shed a tear. He was cutting an onion.

I don't know why I'm telling you about this short story collection. I don't know why it matters so much that I need to post it. But it does, for some reason. It matters that a Father in these stories, weeps. It matters to me.