When the inevitable happened, I was taking an exam. I won’t say that I knew the exact moment, but I had a feeling that it *might* happen. I’d even fought with my aunt the night before.
“You should be here tomorrow. Your father will probably die. You will regret not being here if it happens when you aren’t here”
“I won’t, but thanks for trying to make me feel guilt that I don’t have. He wasn’t there for me in life; why should I be there for him in death”
And with that, I stormed out, not even a glance over the shoulder at the soon to be departed.
I may have been daddy’s little girl when I was 5, but that ship had certainly sailed by 15, and at 25, we were strangers. I’d like to think I’m past the ‘it’s all my parents’ fault, but are we ever really over it?
I sat in the back row of the church during the memorial service. My aunt, my dad’s new 24-year old wife, my grandmother, and an assorted cast of loose acquaintances fill the pews of the small church that the service was held in. Next to me was my mom, who divorced my dad when I was a 7. Her husband didn’t come. My college roommate, who I hadn’t seen in a couple years, was on the other side of me, and beside her were two of my professors from school.
My cousin, the minister, gave the eulogy. It was all about how my dad was the best uncle to him and his brothers. And how he used to do things with them… how he was like a second father to them. He talked about how his recent marriage was a ‘new chance at life’. He talked about how he was a changed man by letting a dog in his life–and how that dog never left his side. My cousin the minister opined for nearly 20 minutes about the virtues of his uncle. He just forgot to mention that my father had a daughter.
And that was the moment I knew… maybe it’s for the best that he forgot to mention me.
Everyone else did too.