The memories of my father often resurface unexpectedly, creeping into my thoughts during mundane moments like washing dishes or driving. They strike me like a flash of lightning, illuminating a dark void only to leave jagged remnants of sorrow and confusion in their wake. Each recollection requires a moment to process, but that moment stretches into what feels like a lifetime, pulling me back to a past I desperately wish to leave behind.
“Mom, what’s happening?”
“What’s Dad doing?”
“He has a gun?”
“Is he drunk?”
“What does drunk mean?”
“Why is he shooting at the stoplight?”
“Oh, Mom, Dad is just mad. He’s really mad because you threw away his brown paper bag.”
I vividly remember crying at the window, watching my father sprint down the street while my mother yelled that she was calling the police. He was my dad, and I loved him with all the affection a six-year-old could muster. When the police arrived, they pulled me away from the window and checked on my brother and me. Meanwhile, another officer assessed my mother’s bruises and the bullet holes in the wall—evidence of my father’s reckless rage. Thankfully, no one was hurt that day, aside from the porcelain and crystal in our home.
My father battled alcoholism, a struggle that many families know all too well. It consumed his happiness and, in turn, robbed me of the father I yearned for. Alcohol had become his priority, overshadowing any love he had for his family. My mother eventually divorced him, and in my childish anger, I blamed her for his absence. As I matured, I began to understand that the true villain was the alcohol, and the hand grasping the bottle belonged to my father. But how do you explain to a child that their father chose addiction over love? My mother didn’t have the answers, and we avoided the subject for years.
There were a few attempts at visitation, where my father was prohibited from drinking while spending time with us. I felt a rush of excitement on that first day when he picked us up, his eyes shining with joy as he exclaimed, “I missed you!” We embraced, laughter filling the air as we hopped into his little blue car for a day at the turtle ponds. But then, as we made a quick stop at a convenience store, he emerged with a brown paper bag—an all-too-familiar sight that still unsettles me. Wrapped tightly around a bottle, it concealed the very thing that had haunted our family.
He instructed us not to tell our mother, and my brother and I exchanged anxious glances, silently agreeing to keep the secret. We feared that if Mom found out, we wouldn’t see Dad again. That promise, however, unraveled when his girlfriend showed up, leading to a confrontation that ended with us being abandoned on the side of the road. Alcohol had snuffed out our joy that day, leaving us with nothing but the ashes of innocence lost.
After that incident, there was a long pause before another visitation was arranged—five years, to be exact. At twelve, I was no longer the naive child I used to be, but I still held on to hope. I sat on a hill outside our home, eagerly awaiting the sight of that little blue car. I imagined my father’s smiling face, but as the sun set, disappointment washed over me. He never came.
I wouldn’t see my father again until adulthood, and the circumstances were heartbreaking. I had tried to convince myself he had moved far away, but he remained in the same city, living in a trailer park. I saw familiar faces pass by, and each time I turned in hope, I was met with the reality of my loss. As an adult, I encountered my own struggles, battling depression and the desire to escape through partying and alcohol—an all-too-familiar trap. But I chose to break free from that cycle.
My husband and child became my greatest blessings. I named my son after my husband, who has been my rock and a source of unwavering love. He is everything I needed, a reminder that I could build a life filled with joy and stability. Together, we created a family, and I grew into a mother and wife I could be proud of.
I never had the chance to tell my father how much I wished he had fought for us, how deeply I mourned the relationship we never had. The regret is profound—he could have been a part of our lives, sharing in our joys and guiding us through challenges. Instead, his battles with alcohol stole him from us long before his death on November 11, 2017. He passed from liver failure, a tragic end to a life marred by addiction. I was with him, but he was unrecognizable and unaware of my presence.
His death sparked a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the loss of a father I never truly knew and at the alcohol that robbed us both of a future together. It has taken time to find forgiveness for him, for myself, and for those around me. In my heart, I hoped to heal and move forward. Before I left his side that day, I placed my hand on his and whispered, “I forgive you. I love you.” My brother joined me, sharing in that moment of fragile closure.
Forgiveness is essential for moving on; it allows us to escape the grips of our past. While my father’s addiction was a significant part of my story, it does not define me. Today, my husband is a wonderful father to our son, embodying the love and support I wished I had received. I am grateful for the light I found in the darkness, and I cherish the memories of a man with bright eyes and a big smile, forever holding that brown paper bag.
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Summary
This reimagined reflection on a father’s struggles with alcoholism offers a poignant narrative of love, loss, and the difficult path to forgiveness. It emphasizes the impact of addiction on familial relationships and the transformative power of choosing a different path for one’s own family.