Honor Thy Father

When my sister & I were young, it was just us. Mom would always be at work, dad would be God knows where. There were some days where I remember my dad being at home with me. He would bring some of the rabbits we had in our backyard into the house. I’d play with them and put some of them in a barbie car and drive them around the house. Then, there were days where he would come back home and drag me by my long hair down the stairs because I gave one the rabbits to my friend in 1st grade at the time. We had around 30 rabbits at the time and if our maid didn’t snitch and tell him I gave one away he wouldn’t even know. I still do not know why he got so mad that day. He was mad on a lot of days.

I used to love my dad. Even though he wouldn’t love me or hug/kiss me back, I loved him. I used to love laying my head on his lap and try to fall asleep. He would pat me so hard that I actually found it difficult to go to sleep, but I still loved it. My mom spent all day at work. She would come back home at night exhausted. He didn’t work. She did. Maybe he did? I can’t remember. They would spend some nights fighting, and I occasionally find myself by their bedroom door trying to eavesdrop although all I could ever hear was yelling. I remember the look on his face, coming out of the room when he’d be finished. His eyes were bloodshot red and his face (also red), filled with rage? Mom would be crying. I never understood it. I mean I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t understand why. To this day, when I look in the mirror and see even a little tint of pink or red in my eyes I see him.

He never did any fatherly duties. He never took me to school, I don’t remember a day where he fed me? Cooked food? But he was a clown by night. He’d have me laughing and giggling so hard that I’d pee my pants. Nights. Almost around bedtime, he would wear my headband that had two side-braids attached and he’d be wearing nothing but shorts. His belly was big and that just made him look 10 times funnier. He would come to me and sort of put on a show and just act silly in general and I’d be so so happy. I wished he was like that all the time. But he wasn’t.

Some years later we were living separately. We saw him once a week. He would pick us up on Friday’s and take us out to the movies. One Friday, while he was dropping us back home he casually said: “I am relocating. Leaving the country. You know I love you right?”

We basically never heard from him again. My sister was 12, I was 7. The times we tried to call him he wouldn’t answer the phone, or he’d speak to us for seconds seeming too eager to put the phone down. I remember his behaviour on the phone vividly. I think after a few attempts from both my sister and I, it was mostly me who still kept trying to reach him. I think my sister was angry. I was just sad. He left just like that. Like it’s the easiest thing to do.

I begged for him most days. I would pray to God to bring him back. Eventually I blamed my mom. My poor mom. Isn’t this the way it usually goes? When one parent up and bounces? Naturally the blame falls on the other.

I’ve read this quote by coincidence at a bookstore just 2 days ago. It said: “A girl should never beg her father for a relationship.” I begged for years.

16 years later, his sister and her son reach out to let us know he’s really sick and that they had to amputate his leg. Also he’s blind. Basically he’s dying. “He wants to see you”. My sister and I sat thinking whether we should go see him or not. Did he even want to see us? Can he speak? We had so many questions. Are we going all the way to say goodbye? Is he automatically forgiven for walking out on us now that he’s on his deathbed? Do we kiss/hug him when we go in to see him? It felt like my head was going to explode. The next day my uncle sat us down and indirectly hinted that we should go see him. He said we might regret it if we don’t. He said that he’s still our father even though he left blah blah blah we carry his name blah he might die soon. We can say our goodbyes.

2 days later we (reluctantly?) booked our tickets to go and see him. I was internally shaking in the airport, on the plane, in the car on the way to see him. I was so afraid of being rejected again. I didn’t know if I could handle it. But I had my sister with me, and for me that was enough. If I ever cried she would hold me and comfort me. She held my hand all the way long. She held my heart all my life.

We got to the hospital, my vision was blurry. We got in the elevator and I felt my heart beating out my chest. I wanted to go back home. What was I doing? Why am I here? Does he know we’re coming? We reached the third floor, I have never felt so anxious in my life. We walked into his room and I saw the lower part of his body under hospital blankets. He asks who’s there and just his voice gets me collapsing on the floor. His voice was so weak, like an 11 year old boy. I think he called out my name and I remember I couldn’t breathe. My sister held me up and we walked over to his hospital bed. I was thinking to myself, who is this? Although we’ve seen his condition and had some expectations from photos of him that we were sent days prior to going. He’s blind. He had his arms in the air trying to reach for us. I hesitate to touch him and eventually as well as reluctantly, stroke his wrinkly hand. His nails were dirty. 10 seconds in and I immediately regret all I put myself through for him. His conversation starter was to blame us for not speaking to him. My sister goes off at him telling him: “you never called, you never asked, you never picked up the phone.” Is he serious? I had some hope in me. I really wanted it to be a sad yet nice little reunion and I wanted to believe he was sorry. I certainly expected not one but many apologies. How did he not realise the pain that he caused this family he chose to abandon? I never hated him more in my life. I spent almost 17 years of my life trying to reach out to him. After finally figuring out that it hurts my mom as well to know that I am still trying, I promised myself that I will stop, and I did. That was my final attempt.

Amusingly, he remembers all of the family members and he takes the time to ask about each and every one. Pure comedy. When it was time to leave, we got up and said goodbye and wished him to get well soon. He shed a few tears. Fear of being all alone again in that depressing room? Don’t know. I felt bad for him. I really did. We kissed him goodbye, I knew that was the last time I was going to see him. I was extremely disappointed. I still am.

Exactly a week later, he passed. I did not cry when he passed. I did not shed a single tear. I’ve had my closure. I grew up and fucking blossomed without him, did I not?