In 1985, when my sister graduated from high school, my mom decided to celebrate by whisking her off to New York City. Meanwhile, my dad, sensing a golden opportunity to escape, invited his girlfriend over, packed his bags, and left. I was just twelve years old at the time.
One glaring oversight — that I would be alone in the house for five days until my mother and sister returned — somehow slipped his mind.
Again, I was twelve. And there I was, left to navigate this newfound solitude. Naturally, my young mind couldn’t grasp the complexities of adult relationships, so I assumed it was somehow my fault. It wasn’t until I hit my twenties that I finally mustered the courage to share this with my sister.
Abandonment issues? Oh, I’ve got a treasure trove of them.
My sister bore the brunt of our father’s strict approach during his time with us; she was a teenager, after all. I was still too young to stir up any real trouble. To him, I was a buddy. We played video games, joked around, and cooked together. It was all fun and games until he walked out the door, leaving me with a sense of betrayal that was hard to swallow.
His departure marked the first great betrayal of my life, and truth be told, I never really moved past it. I nursed that resentment for years, perfecting the art of hating him. When he passed away in 2008, the narrative I had built around him was so deeply ingrained that I barely shed a tear at his deathbed.
Life has a funny way of twisting memories. You create your own history, and whatever you believe morphs into your reality — regardless of its accuracy. My dad wasn’t the villain I had painted him to be; he was just a flawed human being. I wish I had figured that out sooner.
He made mistakes — as we all do — and he wasn’t great at apologizing. I’m pretty sure looking at me reminded him of all those missteps. I kept a mental list of his mistakes right up until the end.
On the day of his funeral, I approached the coffin and touched his face. It felt like cold ceramic. He appeared so small and fragile, a stark contrast to the larger-than-life figure I had known. I recalled the last time I ignored one of his calls; I was working a Friday night shift at the bar and could have picked up but thought, “Ugh. My dad.” Little did I know that he would suffer a life-altering stroke the very next day — the last time I’d have the chance to hear his voice.
Life teaches you to always put your best foot forward because you never know what’s coming next. I didn’t do my best that day, and that regret will follow me forever.
Ironically, I gave birth to a little version of him. My son has inherited his skin tone, hairline, and even that same furrowed brow. At times, I catch him smiling at something only he can see, and I imagine my dad up there, making him laugh the way he once did with me.
When a parent leaves or betrays us, anger can sometimes feel like the only thing we have left. And that’s okay. Everyone navigates these waters differently. But looking back, that saying about not letting the sun set on your anger could’ve saved me a lot of heartache. Some moments in life come without do-overs.
So on what would have been your 82nd birthday, Dad, I want to say: “I’m sorry.” Sorry that I’m human, sorry you were too, and sorry I couldn’t figure this out while you were still here. Oh, and when you come to visit your grandchild next, could you swing by around four? He tends to get a bit grumpy then, and whatever you do to make him smile really works.