I was out grocery shopping with my mom and my two daughters. My mom had come to visit for my son’s birthday, and it was only her second time seeing our home in Utah since I moved here nearly six years ago. Although I frequently visited her, our time together was usually with other adults, so just the two of us shopping felt quite unusual.
We started in the produce aisle with my toddler, Lily, seated at the top of the cart while my seven-year-old, Emma, sat in the basket. My mom, in her early 60s with short, lightened hair, was a bit stout and an inch shorter than my 5’6″ frame. My wife, Sarah, was at home with our son, who was feeling under the weather.
As we searched for sweet potatoes, my mom asked, “Do you usually do the shopping?”
I shrugged and replied, “Sarah and I split it up based on who’s available.”
“I noticed you do the laundry, too,” she remarked.
“Absolutely,” I answered. “I do it every week.”
Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and I added, “I don’t see why that’s such a big deal. I just help out.”
She mentioned my older brother also did some household chores, and she wondered where we got that from. This led her to reminisce about my father, who never shopped, did laundry, or participated in household duties. My dad had been a product of his time, I suppose. I didn’t know him well—he left when I was nine and passed away from addiction when I was 19.
Interestingly, my mom rarely spoke about him for a long time. He had left her with debt and never paid child support. It had only been in the last few years that she began discussing him more casually, and this was one of the rare moments she brought him up without needing a prompt.
“I never thought about it that way,” I replied. “Since Dad wasn’t around, I guess I didn’t have a chance to pick up his bad habits.”
Now we were on the hunt for taco shells. Mom scrutinized the box of shells to ensure they hadn’t expired—something I’d never bothered with. She insisted I should start checking.
“Sarah does a lot of the things I probably should do as a man,” I explained. “She manages our budget. I’m terrible with numbers. She also handled most of the details when we bought our house, figuring out the mortgage and everything.” As I spoke, I reflected on my fear of becoming like my father.
When Sarah and I first got married, I worried that my lack of a solid father figure would lead me to repeat his mistakes. But as I discussed my father’s rigid views on gender roles with my mom, it hit me that not having a role model allowed me to adopt a more flexible and equal partnership with Sarah.
As we moved through the store, we chatted about my kids and shared stories about my wife. Mom checked expiration dates and reminded me to make sure the box was sealed. Even if I wasn’t too keen on her shopping tips, she seemed pleased to share her knowledge. We talked about my father, his struggles with addiction, and his tumultuous relationships, but we kept returning to the things I did that he never would have. It was an engaging conversation, and as we reached the dairy aisle, I posed a question that had been on my mind.
“Do you think I’m a better father than Dad was?” I asked. “I’m always worried that I might become him. I want to be there for my kids. I don’t want to abandon them, like he did. His departure changed my life in ways I still grapple with.”
We were now at the checkout, and as we placed items on the conveyor belt, Mom didn’t take long to respond. She scoffed lightly and said, “Yes. You are much better than your father.” Then she paused, as if wrestling with the bitterness she had held for so long. “In the early years of our marriage, he was a good man, trying hard to keep us happy. But by the time you would have known him, he wasn’t much of a father. You’ve become a great dad, Clint. You should be proud.”
With all the items scanned, I offered my mom a half-smile as I went to pay.
As we headed to the car, we shifted away from my father and focused on my kids and how I needed to finish the laundry.
Driving home, I reflected on her words. I had always thought I was a better dad than my father, and I aimed to be, but I realized many parents without role models share this concern. It’s hard not to wonder if we’re doomed to repeat the same mistakes. Her affirmation felt good, as did her recognition of my efforts to create a stable, supportive home for my family. For the first time, it felt like I was truly doing something right.
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In summary, my conversation with my mom about household responsibilities and parenting illuminated the contrasts between my father and me. It reinforced my commitment to being a present and nurturing father, breaking the cycle of neglect and absence that I experienced growing up.