My dad had a knack for being late. He would visit us twice a year, once in the spring and again during the Christmas holiday, leaving us waiting with bated breath. As a child, I’d press my nose against the foggy storm door of our cozy Midwestern split-level, scanning the road for his arrival.
Every December, as my breath fogged up the glass, I’d doodle hearts on the window before hastily wiping them away. If Dad promised to be there by noon, we knew he’d show up around 1 p.m. or later, his shiny maroon Buick finally pulling into the driveway. His car was the epitome of a salesman in the ‘80s, a vehicle meant to impress.
“Why are you just standing there?” my mother would comment, her expression tight. But I ignored her. I was his most devoted lookout, holding onto hope that he could be on time, despite the reality that sank in as I grew older. Deep down, I knew he would never change, yet I stood there, waiting, not just at our current home but at every temporary place we had lived since the divorce.
Fast forward nearly 40 years, and you’d think I’d have given up. But here I am, still waiting. My father recently reached out, wanting to visit me in New York for a few nights. This would be the first time he would spend real time with my family, including my husband of 15 years and our two daughters.
Now in his 70s, he’s far removed from the younger man who used to sing in the Belfast Boys Choir. The last time we shared a roof was in 1979. I remember one summer when my siblings and I visited him, and I found the basket I had made for him in art class gathering dust on top of the refrigerator, filled with odds and ends. It felt like a representation of our relationship—put away and forgotten.
While my mother often portrayed him as an unreliable figure, I couldn’t bring myself to fully let him go. I realized I was tied to him by blood, unable to renounce the man whose features I inherited. I waited at our front door, hoping to reclaim a part of myself that felt lost.
Over the years, my memories of him began to fade. Moments of us together became scarce, and I sometimes struggled to picture his face. A few snapshots lingered in my mind: him painting our house’s trim while I admired him from the foot of a ladder, or our picnics at the park, where he would serve fried chicken to my siblings and cousins. There was the time I ran through sprinklers in the backyard, laughter echoing while he shook his head, keeping his distance from my drenched self.
Then there were the teddy bears he gifted my sister and me during his earlier visits. I named mine after him, so I could hold onto a piece of him as I drifted off to sleep each night.
Watching my husband dote on our daughters, I often find myself questioning how my father could have walked away. Our family dynamics have shaped our identities, and the stories we tell ourselves about our parents linger like an unfinished meal.
Recently, I discovered a different side of the story. My father didn’t ask for the divorce; my mother did. He was barely over 30 and not the perfect husband, but neither was she the quintessential wife. He didn’t just vanish; he was told to leave, while my new stepfather was waiting in the wings.
In those days, dads weren’t given much credit. They were often portrayed as bumbling fools on TV, incapable of changing a diaper or managing everyday life. They were martini drinkers and absent figures—definitely not the objects of our affection.
As the years went by, his visits dwindled. By the time I was older, he had stopped coming during Easter because we had outgrown chocolate bunnies. Our love and discomfort with each other became more palpable. What would we even say after so much time apart?
When my father finally arrives, I want to ask him if he remembers our trip to Niagara Falls when I was eight. I was mesmerized by the power of the falls and asked him to hold me as I clambered onto the railing for a better view. Wrapped in his embrace, I felt invincible, knowing he wouldn’t let me fall.
Yet, I did fall—over and over—without his support. As I walked down the aisle at my wedding with my stepfather, I caught a glimpse of my dad’s expression from the pews. I wanted to tell him then that it should have been him at my side. I regret not honoring that moment, but my love for him has never waned, even if it’s not always expressed in grand gestures.
He’s coming to visit soon, and I’m preparing a warm welcome. I’ll make up the guest room with fresh linens and add little touches like lavender soap to create a cozy atmosphere. I want him to feel at home because, deep down, I know he has always loved me, even when times were tough.
In this journey of reconnecting, I’ve realized that it’s never too late for love. Whether it’s a heartfelt reunion or a simple visit, the bond between a father and daughter can always be rekindled.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative explores the complexities of a father-daughter relationship marked by absence and longing. Amidst the challenges of growing up without a stable father figure, the author reflects on her childhood memories, their evolving relationship, and the enduring love that persists, even as they prepare to reconnect after decades apart.