How My Dad Showed Me That Better Late Than Never Is a Lesson for Life

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My dad has always had a knack for running late. His visits were like clockwork—twice a year, once in spring and again for Christmas. But every time, he’d keep us waiting. As a kid, I would press my nose against the glass of our storm door, eagerly scanning the road for his arrival and always coming up short.

When he promised to be there by noon, it was more a suggestion than a guarantee. By 1 p.m., my hopes would start to fade. He’d finally pull into the driveway in his shiny maroon Buick, a classic sign of a salesman from the ’80s trying to impress. My mom would give me a hard look and ask why I was standing there, but I didn’t care; I was his devoted lookout. Deep down, I wanted to believe he could be on time, even though by the time I hit my teens, I knew better. I stood there, a hopeful sentinel, not just at our house but at every place we lived after the divorce.

Fast forward nearly four decades, and you’d think I’d have given up waiting. But you’d be mistaken. Recently, my dad reached out, asking to visit me in New York and spend a few nights with my family for the first time ever. He’s in his 70s now, a far cry from the younger man who used to sing Irish tunes at our breakfast table while pretending to listen to my endless chatter.

It’s been since 1979 that we shared the same roof, and I can hardly recall the last time I felt his presence. A summer visit after I’d crafted a basket in art class was the last time my siblings and I stayed with him. I found that very basket collecting dust on top of the fridge, a stark reminder of the distance between us. He would feign ignorance about my moods, not realizing that I felt just as neglected as that forgotten craft.

My mom always painted my dad as the villain in our family story, but I could never fully let go of him. I see now that the pull of family is strong; I couldn’t disown him any more than I could my own features. The memories of him are fading, and some days, I struggle to picture his face. I hold onto snapshots: him painting the house while I admired him, or our family picnics where he served chicken from greasy buckets, and the carefree summer days spent running through sprinklers, his laughter echoing in the background.

Then came the day he left, a moment that reshaped my childhood. He once gave my sister and me teddy bears, and I named mine after him, holding it close every night as I drifted off to sleep. Now, I watch my husband with our two daughters and wonder how my dad could have walked away.

The narrative of my parents’ nine-year marriage is one we still chew over as adults. It’s a mix of memories of him spending money on flashy cars while my mom worked tirelessly, of infidelity, and her heroic struggle to hold things together. But lately, I’ve learned more about my dad’s side of the story—he didn’t initiate the divorce; that was her decision. He was just a man caught in a whirlwind, told to leave while a new partner was already waiting in the wings.

In those days, fathers didn’t get much credit. They were often portrayed as clueless figures in society. My dad didn’t fit the mold of the emotionally absent father. He vanished from our lives, yes, but he was pushed away, and I can’t help but feel sympathy for him now.

As I await his visit, I imagine him on his long drives, singing along to Barry Manilow, tears filling his eyes over the memories he left behind. He could have easily chosen to stay nearby, but perhaps he found reasons to linger in the past, just like I did.

Our time together was filled with outings that felt like attempts to bond, from mall trips to ice cream parlors, but there was always an underlying tension. How does a father reconnect with his children when the very essence of family is missing? As the years rolled on, those visits dwindled, and I wondered if we’d ever bridge the gap.

When he finally visits, I plan to ask if he remembers our trip to Niagara Falls. I felt invincible with his arm around me, knowing he wouldn’t let me fall. But as life unfolded, I stumbled many times without him there to catch me. At my wedding, I caught a glimpse of the pain in his eyes as my stepdad walked me down the aisle. I wanted to reach out, to share that moment with him, but I hesitated.

I still love my dad. It’s a complex love, one that’s both intense and simple. I’m preparing for his visit, making sure he feels comfortable in my home. I’ll set up the guest room with fresh linens and thoughtful touches, like lavender soap on the vanity. He’s welcome here, just as I hope he’ll welcome my love in return.

In the end, we may have missed out on so much, but better late than never, right?

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Summary

The author reflects on her father’s habit of being late and how it shaped her childhood experiences. Despite their estrangement, she still longs for connection and prepares for his upcoming visit, recognizing the complexities of love and family dynamics.