How often do we see the reflections of our parents in us and our reflections in our children? Some of those reflections are clearly better qualities, some, well, not so much.

I remember calling my brother, of blessed memory, on more than occasion and telling him, with a little bit of humor and a slight edge of hysteria, that there were times I was “turning into Dad.” Norm instantly understood what I meant, that I had let the over-the-top compulsive worrying, which he and I both came by honestly, get out of control.

If you were driving any distance, Dad would calculate (based on his own instincts in a pre-Internet world) just how long it should take. And when you walked in the door, the phone would be ringing. Not for the first time. And if you were on your way to a destination where he could reach someone else, from a roommate to a neighbor to a co-worker, you can be sure he’d have already called them as well.

His worrying went beyond safety and health. Having come to this country as an adolescent, he worried about fitting in. He had rigorous standards for himself, and for us, about what was “appropriate,” from our manners to our clothes. That was also grounded in his worry about the possibility of not being accepted.

Today, years after his death, I look at myself and think back about those prescient words to my brother. I have “turned into Dad” in some ways. One experience comes instantly to mind. When 9/11 happened, we were living in western New York, far away from the sites of this tragedy. My brother and his family lived on Long Island, closer but still not in midst of it. I called my husband and checked in, checked on my kids, and then spent hours, dialing and re-dialing my brother. I could not stop, I could not take a full breath, even though in my rational mind I knew he was safe, until I finally reached him by email. I understood, at that moment, a bit of Dad’s fear.

I, like my father, worry about too many things. I can’t “let it go” and “forget it” and, whether it is family or friends or work or beyond, that worry gene (if you will) lives in me. My kids would also tell you that “appropriate” was always one of my key constructs and key words and I still invoke it to this day. I am, I think, not worried about “fitting in” as he was but I there is no question that I think about how I will be perceived. Lessons learned in childhood, personality—who knows?

There was much more to my Dad than worry, although I will say that it defined him in many ways. There was his fierce intellect, his endless thirst for knowledge, his quick wit, his devotion to his family, his commitment to his faith. His worrying, I know, came from a place of love and I wish that I could tell him now that I understand that, that I see myself and accept myself, in so many ways, as the apple from his tree and that it helps to fill my full heart.