How My Father Showed Me the Value of “Better Late Than Never”

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From my earliest memories, my father had a knack for being late. He would visit us only twice a year—once in the spring and again during the Christmas holiday. Each time, we found ourselves waiting with bated breath. I remember pressing my nose against the cold glass of our storm door, scanning the street for his familiar car, only to be met with disappointment.

When he promised to arrive by noon, it almost always turned into 1 p.m. or later before his deep maroon sedan finally rolled into our driveway. My mother would often catch me waiting and ask, “Why are you just standing there?” Ignoring her words, I remained steadfast. I wanted to believe he could be on time, even as I grew to understand—even at the tender ages of 7, 8, and 11—that it was a futile hope. Yet, I stood there, anchored by anticipation, not just at this house, but at every temporary home we had occupied since the divorce.

Fast forward nearly four decades, and you might think I’d have given up this waiting game. But you’d be mistaken.

Recently, my father reached out, asking to visit me in New York for a few days. It would be the first time he’d spend time with my family—my husband of 15 years and our two school-age daughters. Now in his 70s, he is a far cry from the man who once sang sweetly in the Belfast Boys Choir or pretended to listen to my childhood ramblings while skimming through the morning newspaper.

It had been since 1979 that we shared the same roof. That summer, my siblings and I had visited him after I sent him a handmade basket from art class, only to find it collecting dust atop his new wife’s fridge. He feigned confusion over my moodiness, oblivious to my feelings of being discarded.

While my mother often painted him as the villain in their nine-year marriage, I never could completely turn my back on him. I realized how deeply our blood ties connected us. I could no more deny my father than I could reject my own eyes or smile. I stood at the door yearning to reclaim a lost piece of myself.

As the years slipped away, my memories of him began to blur. I clung to a few snapshots: him painting our house with me at the foot of the ladder, a picnic where he served drumsticks from Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the joyful days running through sprinklers while he laughed at my soaked attire.

Then he disappeared from our lives. He gifted my sister and me teddy bears during one visit, and I named mine after him, holding it close as I fell asleep each night.

Now, as I observe my husband watching our daughters with such adoration, I can’t help but wonder how my father could just walk away. My mother often recounted their tumultuous marriage, a narrative we still chew on like stale gum. He was the charming man who spent money recklessly while she worked tirelessly. She raised us, her little love soldiers, while he seemingly vanished, leaving her to manage everything alone.

Recently, I’ve learned more about his side of the story. He didn’t want the divorce; it was my mother who initiated it. He was not the perfect husband, but neither was she the ideal wife at the time. He didn’t walk away willingly; he was pushed out, as my new stepfather was already waiting in the wings.

In the context of the 1970s and ’80s, fathers often received little credit. They were portrayed as bumbling fools in commercials, not the tender, nurturing figures they could be. Instead of being seen as loving parents, they were often absent figures, expected to provide only financially.

Over time, my father’s visits dwindled. Our relationship became strained and distant, with many calling him by my stepfather’s name by mistake. He moved far away, seeking escape from the reminders of his children. I once blamed him entirely for our estrangement, but now I see how he also lost a piece of himself when he could no longer connect with us.

As I prepare for his visit, I find myself waiting yet again. I anticipate asking him about our trip to Niagara Falls when I was eight—the moment I felt safe wrapped in his arm as I climbed the railing for a better view. That feeling of security has faded, but the love remains.

When he arrives, I plan to make him feel welcome, preparing his guest room with fresh linens and thoughtful touches. He is invited to love me back, as I believe he always has, despite the years and distance.

In the end, we all grapple with the complexities of family and the importance of connection, even if it comes late—because, after all, better late than never.

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Summary

In this reflective piece, Emily Carter shares her journey of waiting for her father throughout her childhood and into adulthood. She explores themes of love, estrangement, and the complexities of familial relationships, ultimately embracing the notion that reconnecting, even late in life, is still meaningful.