Dad,
I can’t believe it’s been almost ten years. How have you been doing? Oh, who am I kidding, I know how you’ve been doing. You’ve been gone since that stroke in 2012. I was a teenager then, and back then you were the only male figure in my life who had somewhat of an impact. I was afraid of you, Dad. And could you blame me? You were a whirlwind of emotions and living with you was like a rollercoaster ride I wanted to get out of. But you were still my dad. I still cared about you and still wanted your approval one way or another. In a way, you were my role model.
Because you were the exact opposite of the kind of man I wanted to be, and the kind of man I am now.
Since your stroke, I had been obsessively seeking someone to fill that void. Mum did whatever she could to fill that role - taking care of me and teaching me everything about living in the real world and knowing how to be a man. She was and always has been more of a man than you. I may have inherited your genes, your gender, but Mum made up for that with her patience, wisdom, and kindness. Her love and dedication made me whole while you were gone.
You used to take me to the park and take me to eat together. I remember the first time I drew a picture for your birthday and ate Ruby Tuesday with you and Mum, and I remember that fondly. I was naive. I remember every Sunday we’d go to that street food corner in that dingy alley and eat dubious looking noodles. I remember when I was a little kid I was afraid whenever your temper ran short. Eventually, I learned to be able to read you and knew when to hide. When you and Mum would have your spats. I was perfectly content with being a little boy who feared his father, because I still had respect for you then.
Surprised? Shocked? Disappointed? I can only imagine the face you’re making now. The feelings that must surge through your mind. When did I stop respecting you? Was it puberty? A rebellious stage, perhaps? Coincidentally, it began after the stroke, when I learned about your dirty little secret, and I’m about to air it all out. Mum told me everything, you know. Yeah sure, you might say that she could be embellishing or exaggerating or even lying, but as fair as I am, you have a really tough case to build here, especially since she’s spent decades raising me.
Remember that lady who you used to talk to? The one who was already married and had a son? Whom I apparently met? Yeah, I know about her. Mum showed me the letters. The stash of magazines and tapes that you hid? It was still under your marital bed after all those years; the way you treated Mum, even before I was born? I knew about all of it. You never loved her, and all this time she’d been trapped in a loveless, affectionless marriage.
Because of you, I grew up not knowing what a healthy relationship looked like. But that’s another rant for another time.
You’re probably wondering about the kind of man I am now, and what I have been through since you’ve been gone. I mean, you’re still here with us, but the father I once knew was gone. Now you’re just someone who happens to live with me and Mum. Sure, sometimes you’d try to be a father by cracking a few decades-old jokes or walking around in your undies or try to talk to me like an adult, but you’d never get it right, no matter how clear I am with what I need as your child.
It’s just me and Mum now, and I think we’re better off this way. Sometimes I think to myself that I should try to talk to you more often or even repair our relationship (you didn’t even know it was damaged in the first place), but I’ve tried, you know? I really did. I came back one year, and tried to be as communicative with you as I could. Set my boundaries. Be understanding of what you’re going through. Even talked to my therapist about you. Said I should listen to my heart and be honest with how I feel about you.
And to be honest, I feel nothing. I write this as if you were dead, and in an emotional way, I think you are to me. I sometimes wonder if I would cry when you eventually die. So while I’m ahead, I should probably let you go and move on with my life. I’ve vowed to be a better son, a better husband, and--one day--a better father than you ever were.
Goodbye, father.
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