My father had a notorious habit of being late. Each year, he would visit us twice—once in the spring and again during the Christmas season. On those occasions, my siblings and I would find ourselves waiting, often with a mixture of excitement and frustration. I remember standing at the storm door of our humble Midwestern home, my small face pressed against the glass, peering down the road for any sign of his arrival.
In the cold December air, my breath would fog up the window, and I occasionally drew a heart with my fingertip, only to wipe it away in a moment of shyness. If my father promised to arrive by noon, it was a foregone conclusion that he would make his grand entrance well after 1 p.m. in his latest company car, usually a deep maroon Buick—a classic representation of a salesman in the 1980s, eager to impress.
“Why are you still standing there?” my mother would inquire, her voice a tight line of disapproval. I would ignore her, steadfast in my role as his loyal lookout. Deep down, I wanted to believe that my father could be punctual, despite her whispered assertions to the contrary. By the time I reached my preteens, I realized he would never change, yet I remained there, anchored by hope, not just in our house but in every transient rental we had inhabited since the divorce.
Fast forward nearly four decades, and you might think I would have abandoned this waiting game—yet, here I am. Recently, my father and I have reconnected. He has expressed a desire to visit me in New York, to stay at my home and spend quality time with my family—my husband of 15 years and our two school-age daughters. This would be the first time he’d truly engaged with my family in this way.
Now in his 70s, my father is a far cry from the vibrant man I remember, one who sang sweet Irish melodies from the Belfast Boys Choir while half-listening to my childhood stories over breakfast. We hadn’t shared a roof since 1979, following an awkward summer visit when I discovered a basket I had crafted for him gathering dust atop his new wife’s refrigerator—an emblem of how I felt put aside.
As my mother recounts their nine-year marriage—an endless tale that has shaped our identities—I’ve begun to understand a different perspective. The divorce was not his decision; it was hers. He was not without faults, but neither was she the ideal partner. My understanding has evolved, allowing me to see the complexities of their relationship and the societal expectations of men during that era.
He moved away, and with each visit, we felt increasingly estranged. Our identities became entwined with our stepfather’s, and I often found myself inadvertently calling him by another name. For years, I harbored resentment towards my father, but now I recognize the pain he must have felt, too.
As I await his visit, I wonder how he coped with the separation from his children. I imagine him driving alone in his Buick, listening to sentimental songs, perhaps trying to muster the courage to reconnect with us. Each visit was a fragile attempt to bridge the gap in our fractured family.
Over time, his visits dwindled, and our relationship became strained. I plan to ask him if he remembers our trip to Niagara Falls when I was eight, a moment when I felt utterly safe in his embrace. Yet, life has dealt me many falls since then, and I’ve learned to get back up without him.
Now, as I prepare for his arrival, I am filled with a mixture of love and apprehension. I want to make him feel welcomed in my home, to show him that despite the years and distance, he remains a part of me. I will prepare the guest room, fluff the pillows, and ensure that small touches, like lavender soap, are present, creating an inviting atmosphere for our reunion.
I still love him, despite the complexities of our past. He is coming to visit, and I am waiting with an open heart, ready to embrace this long-awaited moment.
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Summary
This narrative reflects on the author’s relationship with her father, emphasizing the lessons learned about patience and acceptance over time. As she prepares for his visit, she grapples with their complicated history while still holding hope for reconnection.