My father had a notorious reputation for being late. He would visit us twice a year—once in the spring and again during the Christmas holidays. Each time, he kept us waiting, and with my youthful impatience, I found myself pressed against the glass of our modest storm door, scanning the road for any sign of his arrival.
In December, I would watch my breath fog up the glass, sometimes drawing a heart on the pane before quickly wiping it away. If Dad promised to be there by noon, it was a given that he would show up around 1 p.m. or later, pulling into our driveway in his latest company car—a dark maroon Buick, the quintessential vehicle of an ’80s salesman trying to make a mark.
“Why are you standing there?” my mother would ask, her lips forming a tight line. But I ignored her. I was his devoted lookout, clinging to the hope that my father could somehow be punctual, despite her whispered doubts. Even as I began to understand, by the ages of 7, 8, 11, and especially 13, that he simply wasn’t capable of being on time, I remained there, rooted in hope. This wasn’t just at our current home; it was in all the various temporary places we had lived since the divorce.
Fast forward nearly 40 years, and you might think I’d have abandoned this waiting game. But you’d be mistaken.
Recently, my father reached out to me, asking if he could come visit me in New York and stay for three or four nights. This would be his first time spending real quality time with my family—my husband of 15 years and our two daughters. Now in his 70s, he is a far cry from the man who once sang sweetly in the Belfast Boys Choir or pretended to listen to my childhood musings while reading the morning news at our breakfast table.
Since 1979, we haven’t shared a roof. One summer, my siblings and I stayed with him after I sent him a handwoven basket from art class, only to find it gathering dust atop the fridge in his new wife’s home. He feigned ignorance as to why I was upset, pretending not to see how I, too, felt discarded.
While my mother often painted him as a flawed figure, I could never completely let him go. I’ve learned over time that the ties of family are not so easily severed. I could no more reject my father than I could my own physical features; my distinct smile and blue eyes are remnants of him. I stood at our front door, waiting to reclaim pieces of myself that felt lost.
As years went by, I noticed my memories of him beginning to fade. I was so young when he left that sometimes I struggled to visualize his face. The few memories I clung to were precious: my father painting our house, me sitting at the foot of the ladder, admiring him while dodging paint splatters; a picnic in the park where he handed out Kentucky Fried Chicken; running through sprinklers in the summer while he laughed, refusing to let his drenched daughter inside.
Then he disappeared. He gifted my sister and I teddy bears during one of his early visits, and I named mine after him so I could feel his presence close as I fell asleep.
Now, when I see my husband utterly captivated by our daughters, I can’t help but wonder how my father could walk away.
My mother’s narrative about their nine-year marriage is one we, as children, have digested repeatedly. We still chew on the remnants of their history—even as adults. It flavors our memories and shapes our identities. We remember how he spent money frivolously while she worked tirelessly, how he had affairs in other cities, and how she heroically managed to keep the family afloat.
Lately, I’ve started to understand his side of the story. He didn’t initiate the divorce; she did. Barely in his 30s, he wasn’t the ideal husband, but neither was she the perfect wife. He didn’t vanish without a trace; he was asked to leave, with my new stepfather already waiting in the wings.
Men in the 70s and 80s weren’t often portrayed positively in media, portrayed as incompetent and absent. They were not seen as capable of nurturing or emotional connection, but rather as martini drinkers and briefcase carriers.
He may have left our day-to-day lives, but he didn’t abandon his love for us. He was not around to share custody; my mother made sure of that. Our encounters became fewer, and we were increasingly distant. It hurt him to watch us call his new partner by his name when we were confused.
As I prepare for his visit, I realize I have many questions. I want to know how he felt saying goodbye to his younger wife before embarking on those long drives to see us. I picture him alone in his Buick, singing along to sentimental songs on the radio, perhaps trying to find solace in the music to make the journey feel less daunting.
We would often find ourselves walking in circles at the local mall or enjoying ice cream, searching for ways to connect. But there was an emptiness in our interactions, a lack of what it meant to be a family.
As the years went by, his visits became less frequent, and eventually stopped altogether. We were too old for chocolate bunnies, he said. The love we shared was complicated, and it became harder to sustain a conversation after a year of absence or the announcement of his new son—a second chance he never had with us.
When he visits this time, I will ask about our trip to Niagara Falls when I was eight. I remember asking him to hold on to me while I climbed the railing for a better view. I felt exhilarated and safe wrapped in his embrace. That feeling of security was fleeting, as I fell many times over the years without his support.
At my wedding, my stepfather walked me down the aisle, but my father sat in the pews, his expression a mix of pride and sorrow. I wished I could have given him that moment, but I didn’t. Now, I’m left wondering if I should have.
Despite everything, I love my father—an unwavering, complex love akin to how we feel about our limbs. It’s often unspoken and taken for granted until it’s gone.
He’s coming to visit soon, and I’m preparing to make him feel welcome. I’ll freshen up the guest room, fluff the pillows, and add personal touches, like lavender soap on the vanity. I want him to feel at home because he is welcome—to love me back as I know he always has.
In summary, this journey with my father has taught me invaluable lessons about patience, forgiveness, and the complex nature of familial love.
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