My father had a perpetual struggle with punctuality. He would visit us twice a year—once in the spring and again during the Christmas season. Each time, we were left waiting. As a child, I would press my face against the glass of our storm door, scanning the road for signs of his arrival, only to be met with disappointment.
In winter, my breath would fog the glass, and I would sometimes draw a heart on the pane, quickly erasing it as if it was too much to hope for. If Dad promised to arrive by noon, it was a given that it would be 1 p.m. or later before he would finally pull into our driveway, driving a Buick, usually a shade of deep red, the quintessential vehicle of an ’80s salesman trying to impress.
“Why are you still standing there?” my mother would ask, her expression taut. I would ignore her, remaining steadfast in my role as his loyal lookout. I wanted desperately to believe that my father could be on time, despite her quiet criticisms. Even though I realized by the age of 7, 8, and certainly 13 that he simply could not be—would likely never be—there I stood, filled with hope. And it wasn’t just in our modest home; it was in every temporary place we found ourselves after my parents’ divorce.
Fast forward nearly 40 years, and you’d think I would have given up waiting, but you’d be mistaken. My father and I have been reconnecting recently. He expressed a desire to visit me in New York, to stay for three to four nights, and to spend meaningful time with my family—my husband of 15 years and our two school-age daughters—for the first time ever. Now in his 70s, he is far removed from the man who once sang with the Belfast Boys Choir or pretended to engage with my childhood chatter while reading the morning papers at our Formica kitchen table.
Since 1979, we haven’t shared a roof. A month after I sent him a basket I crafted in art class, my siblings and I visited him one summer. I discovered the basket tucked away on top of his new wife’s fridge, dusty and filled with forgotten items. He feigned ignorance about my moodiness, pretending not to notice how I felt set aside.
While my mother always depicted my father as a flawed hero in her narrative, I could never fully dismiss him. The bond of DNA is powerful; I could no more reject him than I could disown my own physical traits. My crooked smile and bright blue eyes were his, a connection I desperately sought at our front door.
Time passed, and my memories of him began to fade. I was so young when he left that sometimes I struggled to visualize his face. Yet, I clung to a few vivid memories: him painting our house’s trim while I gazed up at him, a picnic with him serving Kentucky Fried Chicken to my siblings, and him shaking his head with a smile as I ran through the sprinklers on a summer day. He was there, then suddenly, he was gone.
He gifted us teddy bears during early visits, and I named mine after him, a way to keep him close as I fell asleep. Now, as I watch my husband dote on our daughters, I can’t help but wonder how my father could have walked away.
The narrative of my parents’ nine-year marriage is one we, as children, continually revisit. It flavors our memories and identities. My father was often portrayed as the irresponsible man who squandered money on cars and clothes while my mother worked hard. We grew up with tales of his infidelities and neglect, and how my mother heroically managed the fallout, with us as her supportive soldiers.
However, I’ve recently begun to understand his side of the story. He didn’t initiate the divorce; my mother did. At just over 30, he wasn’t the perfect husband, but she wasn’t without her flaws either. He didn’t just leave; he was asked to go, with my new stepfather waiting in the wings.
In the 1970s and ’80s, men rarely received credit for their capabilities as fathers; they were often depicted as incompetent figures. They were absent, or merely disciplinary figures, not the nurturing ones we now recognize. My father may have vanished from our lives, but he too lost a significant part of himself when he could no longer connect with us.
Now, I find myself anticipating his visit. I picture him alone, driving his Buick while listening to sentimental songs, perhaps shedding a few tears on the road back to us. He could have easily stayed at a nearby hotel, returning in time for his scheduled visit, but perhaps he sought solace in the moments before facing us.
Each visit grew increasingly strained, and eventually, our time together dwindled. We were no longer little enough for chocolate bunnies, and the discomfort of our mutual love felt insurmountable.
When he arrives, I’ll ask him about our trip to Niagara Falls. I remember feeling exhilarated as he held me securely while I leaned over the railing for a better view of the falls. I felt safe in his embrace. Over the years, I stumbled often, picking myself up without his support. As I walked down the aisle at my wedding with my stepfather, I caught a glimpse of my father’s devastated expression. I wished it could have been him beside me, but I didn’t voice it.
Despite everything, I love him still, with a fierce, eternal love. Much like we don’t constantly express gratitude for our limbs, we often fail to voice our affection for those we cherish until they are lost to us.
As I prepare for my father’s visit, I want him to feel welcomed. I’ll prepare a fresh bed in the guest room, fluff the pillows and place thoughtful touches—like lavender soap—on his bathroom vanity. He is welcome here, to love me as I know he always has.
In Summary
The complexity of familial relationships, especially between parents and children, is intricate and often fraught with challenges. The lessons learned from time spent together and the impact of absence shape our identities and perceptions of love. As we navigate these connections, understanding and empathy play crucial roles in fostering reconciliation and acceptance.
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Keyphrase: The Importance of Punctuality in Family Relationships
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