Updated: April 29, 2016
Originally Published: April 28, 2016
In 1985, my sister celebrated her high school graduation with a trip to New York City, courtesy of our mom. My dad, sensing an opportunity, decided to bring his girlfriend over, packed his bags, and left. I was just twelve at the time.
One glaring detail — that I would be left alone for five days until my mother and sister returned — somehow escaped his attention.
At twelve, I was blissfully unaware of the complexities of adulthood, marriage, and relationships. I thought it was somehow my fault. It wasn’t until my twenties that I finally confided in my sister about my feelings of abandonment.
Yes, I had abandonment issues.
While my sister faced the brunt of our father’s strictness during his time with us, I was too young to be a problem. We were friends. We played video games, shared jokes, and cooked together. Everything was great—until he left. That’s when my world turned upside down.
My father leaving was the first major betrayal of my life, and I can’t deny that I never truly got over it. Over the years, I allowed the resentment to fester and grow. When he passed away in 2008, I hardly shed a tear at his deathbed, as my perception of him was deeply ingrained in my mind.
The truth about history is complicated, just as the human mind is. We create our narratives, and what we believe to be true often becomes our reality, regardless of its accuracy. My father wasn’t the villain I had painted him to be; he was a flawed human, just like the rest of us. I wish I had recognized that sooner.
He made mistakes, as we all do, but he struggled to apologize for them. I kept a mental list of his failures until the very end.
At his funeral, I approached his lifeless body in the coffin. Touching his face felt surreal; he was so small, so vulnerable, so unlike the intimidating figure I remembered. I recalled the last time I ignored his call while working at a bar. There was a lull in business, and I could have answered. Instead, I thought to myself, “Ugh. My dad.” Little did I know, the next day he would suffer a stroke that would leave him unable to speak again. That would be the last time I ever heard his voice.
Life has a way of reminding us to give our best, as we never know when things might change drastically. I didn’t give my best that day, and that regret will follow me indefinitely.
Ironically, I now have a son who resembles my father in so many ways—same skin tone, hairline, and even that familiar furrowed brow. Sometimes, I catch him smiling at something that isn’t visible to me, and I imagine my father standing nearby, making him laugh just like he used to do with me.
When a parent betrays us or walks away, anger often becomes our sole anchor. And that’s perfectly valid; no one can dictate how you process such deeply personal experiences. For me, reflecting on the wisdom of “Don’t let the sun go down while you’re still angry” could have made a significant difference if I’d taken it to heart. Some moments in life don’t offer a second chance.
On what would have been your 82nd birthday, Dad, I want to say, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry for being human. I’m sorry you were human too. I wish I could have figured this all out while you were still here. And in the future, when you visit your grandchild, could you come around four o’clock? He gets a bit grumpy then, and whatever you do to make him smile works wonders.
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In summary, navigating the complex emotions related to family and loss can be deeply challenging. Although anger might be our first response, understanding and forgiveness can pave the way for healing.
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