āThe sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.ā
- William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
Today, entirely unprompted, my dad gave me a real apology. He looked into my eyes and admitted he was unfairly mean to me for my entire childhoodāthat he targeted me without even knowing why. He claimed he didnāt know he was doing it.
Iāve never heard him say any of this, and I donāt know if I even needed to hear it anymore. Still, there was comfort in the confirmation that I didnāt make up the stories of my life. The easiest answer was always to write me off as sensitive, melodramatic, or delusional. I wasnāt then, and Iām not now. I was well-trained to doubt that, though.
I told him I knew now he was mostly trying to joke around with me in the beginning, but he waited too long to realize I was a child taking my father seriously. Then I became deeply aware of the table perceiving me and wrapped up the discussion.
If I had gathered my thoughts in time or knew how to receive his apology better, I wouldāve said more. I mightāve conceded that, yes, he was frequently cruel to me and seemed to hate so many parts of who I was as a person from an early age. I wouldāve said that I know he mostly hated the parts of himself he saw reflected in me. I realized that years ago. I have come to my own terms with it. (Short version: Iāve done a moderate amount of psychedelics and a mild amount of therapy.)
My relationship with my father is complicated and often confusing to me, but itās been in a decent place for a while now. Perhaps thatās generous on my part, perhaps weak. Iāve learned to sit with opposing truths of my father: he is now a kind, old man who has grown deeply and worked hard to be better. He thinks before speaking and considers the feelings of others, which I didnāt previously believe possible. He cares genuinely about my interests and life, and he thinks Iām the coolest person in the world. These are todayās truths. And, also, he is the man that consistently tortured me until I broke down for eighteen years. He relished physically and psychologically pushing me to see how far he could go, and then heād disappear each time I broke. He was often absent from our family, even when he was sitting right beside us. He was easily enraged but also frequently joking, and then heād go right back to being darkāsuddenly and without warning. He was petty, deceitful, and sneaky. He would read my diary and recite it back to me with a smirk and a chuckle, until I eventually stopped writing. He would make fun of my appearance and the appearances of strangers in front of me. His criticism of others became my inner critic of my own appearance.
He delighted in making me cry.
He found joy in making me fear for my lifeāespecially behind the wheel of a car.
My father instilled the unoriginal litany of absentee parent phrasing into my synapses (i.e. āSpeak when spoken to,ā āThis is my house. You merely occupy a room,ā etc). I think he believed himself to be doing a bit, like a satirical impression of his own absentee parents. At the time, it stung like sincerity. My fatherās words haunt me often, and I find even more discomfort in things he only ever said once. At age four, āI always knew youād be the slutty disappointment daughter.ā At age eleven, āI donāt even think I weighed as much as you when I graduated high school.ā At age fifteen, āI just want to start my life over and do everything differently.ā At age sixteen, āI think I hate who youāve become.ā
A multifaceted mystery always, my father was a kind, gentle, loving caretaker to his grandparents for the first three years of my life. They only lived a short five minute drive away, so he went over to check on them oftenāand so would I. Granddad had physical limitations and Glo was in advanced stages of Alzheimerās. The two of us would go over to their place and Iād sit on the couch listening to Glo talk in circles while my dad did laundry, dishes, or small household handiwork. The best evenings there were the ones when Dad and Granddad would play poker and have chocolate mousse cake. I remember flashes of evenings and afternoons spent there, but mostly I remember being confused. I couldnāt understand why my father was willing to cook and clean so helpfully for his grandparents but not his wife and children. He continued taking loving care of Glo and Granddad until each had passed.
My sister and I were made aware from the start that we were inherent disappointments for neither being a son. As a toddler, I promised him Iād carry on the family legacy of joining the army - simply because Iād never seen him look so proud as when I randomly said it once. I joined a soccer team coached by his best friend at age five and he was my assistant coach. Two years later, I asked my mom to convince him to retire from coaching to devote his time to being a parent on the sidelines; what I never said was that I couldnāt bear having one more venue for him to scream at me. I watched science fiction and cooking shows with him while my mother and sister were at dance class; in the earlier years weād eat scrambled eggs or hot dogs, both covered in ketchup. Eventually, after a few years of watching 30 Minute Meals, he bought a Rachael Ray cookbook and began making incredibly delicious frittatas for dinner on dance class nights. Weād work on home repair projects together, which mostly involved me noticing crucial mistakes he was making and him defensively continuing on anywayācursing loudly, kicking the project, and eventually rebuilding it correctly with me in the silence of his shame. He preferred for me to simply hold the flashlight or level in silence, but I struggled to just watch him misread directions. I had a bad habit of assuming my advice was helpful. I was often called a āSMASKā or a Smart-Ass Kid for my habitual backtalk (otherwise known as opinions/thoughts/feelings). He would try to make degrading comments about random women to me, complain about my mom, say ignorant things about minorities, and all kinds of other insane shit. I never held my tongue with my thoughts on his disgusting commentary, and that always enraged him extra. No matter how much he hoped, Iād never be the son he yearned for and his name would die with his daughters.
I learned early that my father wasnāt fully capable of parenting. I distinctly remember correcting him when he was trying to help me with potty training, as he couldnāt even describe wiping in the safe direction for my anatomy. He didnāt take kindly to being (accurately) corrected by a toddler. My family used to laugh about how Iād stop crying whenever my father entered the nursery. They said it proved I was manipulating my mother into coddling me. What it actually proved was that I already knew he wouldnāt comfort me. By the time I was five, my mother had to quit the HOA board because I would bang on the front door each time she left, screaming and crying, āDonāt leave me alone with him!ā
Nine times out of ten, my dad would say no to family pool trips even though the neighborhood pool was a hundred yards from our front door. On that one rare chance he came with us, heād throw me in the air across the pool as much as I asked and āTigger Bounceā me while doing his loudest impression of the character. Without fail, I would always pee just the tiniest bit from how hard I was giggling. Iād always beg him to come with us, praying for fun family pool time instead of listening to my mom talk the entire time.
During the first few walking years of my life, I sprinted to the door at the first sound of his keys. I was so excited just to hug him, ask how his day was, and ask todayās date. Five days a week, heād tell me the date and Iād say, āNo, noāI meant the week day.ā I spent every day looking forward to the answer of Friday because it meant two days with him around and maybe some activities as a family. Eventually, I started school and stopped asking, but I still desperately yearned for weekends. They held soccer games and church always (both family-wide command performances), and, on really great weekends, we went to the movies or played a board game. The latter was my weekly request that was granted maybe thrice a year.
I wish I had blatantly told him how much more I needed him around and how badly I wanted to feel at home. I wish I had said it back then.
Something else that I wish I had said today, with the entire family gathered, would be that it wasnāt just him that was the problem. I always felt I was born into an already-complete family and I was an extra person who didnāt belong. Some of my earliest memories involve all three of my family members teasing me relentlessly until I cried, while I sat alone in the third row of the minivan. I remember them gaslighting me about my own experiences, constantly. Having family-wide affirmations against my better knowledge messed with my head quite a bit. My sister was my first bully. She physically abused me, as early as my infancy (this I donāt remember, but Iāve seen the family videos). She was two and a half when I was born, so I do blame the parents behind the camera, once again. I blame her for mental and emotional abuse that followed in later years. I donāt think my sister understood what any of us were becoming to each other any more than I did.
And, my god, I could write books about everything done by my mother, but I donāt want to follow Jeannette McCurdy so directly.
In many ways, I am like my father. I can be stubborn, neurotic, hard-headed, arrogant, and a sarcastic asshole. I make jokes at the wrong time, I donāt always read the room, and I tell many stories and fun facts far too often. I inherited a large portion of my taste in music, movies, and television from him, my love of thrift stores and yard sales, a foolishly relentless belief in the kindness of strangers, and the ability to make home repair projects remarkably precise but three days slower than estimated. My neurodivergence came from him, obviously. My blue eyes, susceptibility towards skin cancer and alcoholism, tragic gut health, and ā I suspect ā the hypermobile joints, too. There is far more to me than just what I inherited from him, but he is always part of me in ways varying in virtue. In the nature and nurture of it all, as much of who I am exists in spite of him as because of him. I refused to learn and absorb behaviors from him that I deemed horrifying, and thankfully I was born with a strong sense of justice.
There are many things about my father that I will never make excuses for or guess at explanations. I donāt understand the racism he exhibited when I was young, and I donāt know if he grew out of it or grew quiet about it. I donāt understand how he could be so homophobic when I was young and then be such an ally now. I wonāt try to understand cruelty or hatred within him. I would say, though, that I understand he wasnāt emotionally mature enough to be a parent at the time he became one. Or perhaps he just wasnāt prepared for life with a second child. And I donāt really fault him for that, but I do fault him for not doing anything about it. I fault him for leaving me to be raised entirely alone by an emotionally unstable mother. I fault him for openly favoring my sister and creating alliances in our household. I fault him for hurting me. I fault him for creating a flinch I canāt grow out of and a relentless shrinking each time I hear a man raise his voice. I fault him for teaching me to fear large rings, the passenger seat, and apathy.
I fault him for ending my lifelong friendship in his pathetic attempt to end his marriage. He cheated on my mother for several years with dozens of women, and one turned into a ācommittedā affair with my best friendās mother. Her mother was my Girl Scout troop leader and my motherās best friend. Her husband was my soccer coach and my fatherās best friend. My best friend and I both knew that my father and her mother had a weirdly boundary-crossing friendship and it made things really strange between us for about two years. Finally, my sister and I found his unlocked phone on family vacation and photographed all the evidence we could find. We presented it to my mother, who declared she would never leave him because she needed his work-provided insurance. She did make the house unlivably hostile and forced him to get involved in the church. She also sent aggressively accusatory Facebook messages to my best friendās mother, and I never really heard from her again. After twenty years of friendship, I lost the best friend Iād had since I was in diapers. I fault him for every part of that multifamily drama and for all the waves of impact. I fault him for spending years lying to everyone.
I looked back into his eyes, more tired than I remembered them, as he apologized to me, and I felt how deeply he meant it. I donāt reach for his hand anymore when I cross streets, but he reaches for my arm. He calls me more often now, so I donāt answer with, āWho died?ā I text him when I find things I think heād enjoy and on days I sense heās struggling. Weāre both sober, forgetful shells of who we once were and that may be a blessing for him. I sit my conflicting feelings toward him at the same table, but I still donāt know where I fall on the scale of forgiveness.
I donāt have the heart to say most of these things to him, at this stage of life. I fear breaking him with my words. I pray I feel brave enough to say some of it while we both have time.
I worry about my father constantly.
And, despite every reason not to, I love him.
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