My dad was notoriously tardy. He would visit us twice a year, once in the spring and again during the Christmas season. Each time, we’d find ourselves waiting, often impatiently. I remember leaning against the glass of our storm door, peering out at the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of his car.
In the winter, the glass would fog up from my breath, and I’d sometimes draw a heart on the window before quickly smudging it away. If Dad promised to arrive by noon, it was almost guaranteed that he wouldn’t show up until at least 1 p.m. or later, pulling into our driveway in whatever new model of his maroon Buick he had chosen that year—a classic salesman’s vehicle from the ’80s.
“Why are you just standing there?” my mother would ask, her lips pressed into a firm line. I’d ignore her. I was his devoted lookout. I needed to believe he could be on time, despite her quiet doubts. Even though, by the time I hit 7, 8, 11, and definitely 13, I understood he likely wouldn’t change, I still stood there, filled with hope. This ritual happened at every place we lived after the divorce, in all the modest homes we shuffled through before finally settling in our split-level.
You might think that after nearly 40 years, I would have abandoned my waiting habit, but you’d be mistaken. My father and I have been having conversations lately. He’s expressed a desire to visit me in New York and stay with my family—my husband of 15 years and our two daughters—something that has never happened before. Now in his 70s, he’s a far cry from the younger man who used to sing along to songs from the Belfast Boys Choir or pretend to listen to my childhood chatter while skimming the morning paper.
Since 1979, we haven’t shared a roof. The last time my siblings and I visited him, it was a month after I’d sent him a basket I crafted in art class. When I rummaged through his new wife’s decorations, I found it collecting dust atop their refrigerator, filled with forgotten items: paperclips, expired coupons, and pens that no longer worked. He feigned ignorance about my moodiness, pretending not to see how I, too, felt discarded.
While my mother often paints him as a charming figure with her own flaws, I could never entirely let him go. It’s in our DNA; I couldn’t disown him any more than I could remove my own limbs. My crooked smile and blue eyes are unmistakably his. I stood at our door waiting for a part of myself that felt lost.
As the years passed, my memories of him began to fade. I was so young when he left that sometimes I struggled to picture his face. Yet, a few cherished memories lingered: my father painting our house while I sat at the foot of the ladder, watching him with admiration; a picnic at the park where he distributed drumsticks to my siblings from a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken; and summer days running through the sprinklers while he laughed, shaking his head at my soggy antics.
Then he vanished. He had given me a teddy bear during one of his visits, and I named it after him, clutching it tightly as I drifted off to sleep. Now, as I see my husband mesmerized by our daughters, I can’t help but wonder how my father could have walked away.
My mother served up her version of their nine-year marriage like a dish we kids endlessly chewed on. We picked at memories of how he squandered money on cars while she worked tirelessly at home, or how he had affairs. As kids, we propped her up after long days, trying to ease the burden left by our errant father.
Recently, I’ve begun to learn his side of the story. He didn’t initiate the divorce; she did. At just over 30, he wasn’t the perfect husband, but neither was she the ideal wife. He wasn’t simply absent; he was asked to leave, with my new stepfather already in the wings, waiting for him to drive away.
In the 1970s and ’80s, society didn’t give men much credit. Advertisements often mocked them as incompetent, painting them as martini drinkers and absent authority figures rather than nurturing fathers. My father was no exception. He disappeared from our lives, not because he wanted to, but because he was pushed out. The years of waiting led to a slow disconnect, where we sometimes confused his name with our stepfather’s. I had initially blamed him alone, but I now understand how he lost a part of himself when he could no longer look into our eyes.
As I anticipate his upcoming visit, I can only imagine the pain he felt each time he said goodbye to his beautiful, younger second wife before making the drive back to us. Alone in his Buick, with the sounds of sentimental Barry Manilow on the radio, he would likely have reflected on the distance between us, the moments lost.
When he comes, I’m eager to ask if he recalls our trip to Niagara Falls when I was eight. I remember feeling exhilarated as I climbed the railing for a better view, knowing I was safe with my father’s arm around me. Yet, I fell many times after that, picking myself up without his help.
At my wedding, as my stepfather walked me down the aisle, I caught my father’s pained expression from the pews. I wanted to say, “Dad, it should be you up here,” but I didn’t. I grappled with the regret of not giving him that honor, but my love for him remains steadfast, a daughter’s love that’s as enduring as it is complicated.
Now that my father is on his way, I’m preparing to welcome him into my home. I’ll make his guest room inviting, fluffing pillows and placing thoughtful touches like lavender soap on the vanity. I want him to feel cherished because despite everything, he is welcome. I know he loves me in return, and that love has never waned.
Summary:
This narrative explores the author’s complex relationship with her father, who was often late and emotionally distant. Through reflections on their past and his impending visit, the author grapples with feelings of love, loss, and the longing for connection. As she prepares to welcome him, she acknowledges the enduring bond that exists despite their fraught history.
Keyphrase: Importance of Timeliness in Family Relationships
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