I hate Father’s day because I feel like I have to call my father and wish him a happy Father’s day. And in my mind, doing this would somehow imply that he was a good father to me. And he wasn’t.
My parents divorced when I was three years old but lived together until my mother remarried. I was eight by then. My mom left their home and I went to live with my maternal grandmother for a while.
I don’t remember him ever making an effort to see me. I would visit him every Sunday to get some money. There were many times that he would not be home. There were many times when I knew he was home, passed out drunk, and not open the door.
He promised me he would help me financially until I graduated from college but he didn’t. In fact, he hid the acceptance letter that was sen to me from my number one school choice. I found the letter when I was helping him clean his place.
I was perplexed. I could not understand why he would do such a thing. He told me he was afraid I would reject him as my father if I went to that school. This made sense to me but it did not help me feel less betrayed.
I lost touched with him when he moved away. On a rare occasion when I visited him, one of his friends told me that I was a terrible son because I would not call him more often. I told his friend, “You know, phones work both ways.” My father only managed to tell his friend, “Stop. It’s okay.”
Many years have passed since then and I’m still the one who has to go see him or call him but thanks to my program of recovery I can see that he is doing the best he can with what he has. The only memory I have of his father is seeing him passed out drunk on the street. My father lost his mother when he was very young. I cannot imagine what his childhood was like.
So ended up calling him. I wished him a happy Father’s day. We chatted for a bit and then hanged up. And I feel better for it.