Sins of the father

My father is no longer in my life, by his choice, and so I feel compelled to finally write this here. For much of my life, up until 2 years ago, I lived to be “good enough” in his eyes. Yet, all the while, I had the innermost desire for him to accept me just as I am. I was his firstborn, so I had thought, and I wanted to rebuild a relationship that was interrupted in my early childhood. A 6-year interruption, in fact, that no child should have to voluntarily live with.

My most vivid childhood memory of my father was when I was barely 2 years old. He rode home from work, on his motorbike. I heard the roar of it long before I sighted its handlebars. I was waiting for him, as most children would do. I saw him take something out of his pockets, before holding both hands in front of me. I guessed the right, nothing in there. I tapped on the left, nothing there also. Disappointed, I hung my head. A lolly was then produced in front of me as if by magic. It lasted me till dinner, that blob of sweetness.

The next thing I remembered of him was being told that he had gone. I was barely 3. I grew up knowing of a mysterious country that my father lived in, one with blue skies and seas for miles. He was creating for us a better life, I was told. My late paternal grandmother sang praises about my father, and never in my head and heart did I doubt what she told me. Surely my father was an honourable man, worthy of adoration, and the perfect figurehead.

I next saw my father when I was 8. He was a stranger that visited for a few days. He bought me a giant Minnie mouse soft toy. I hated it, the look of it, the texture of it, the size of it, and the bright clothes it wore. Then I thought I finally had my father, at the age of 9. He drove me home in his white delivery van. I was in Australia at long last, the land of blue skies and endless seas. I still saw my father little. Weekdays were for work, and weekends were for his rest. We weren’t to disturb him, only to help him when summoned.

He loved my sister the most when she was born. I was 11. I was forgotten. In my teens, my father tried to talk to me, and to teach me about the world. But I had already given up listening. I tried to respect him and to get to know him, but the damage was long done in childhood. He kicked me out of the family home when I was 19. I fell into a deep depression. He agreed to walk me down the aisle when I was 21. I studied at university and became a logistics planner, a male dominated field. My father was pleased.

He enjoyed becoming a grandfather when I had my firstborn at 24. I had hope that we could repair a filial relationship. My father doted on my second born. My firstborn was forgotten. I should have seen it coming. I had a rare sarcoma and my father announced to the world that I was dying of cancer. I survived and decided that there was more to life. I went back to university, to nursing school. My father said I was crazy. It took a stranger to admonish him, who told him that he would have been so proud if it was his daughter becoming a nurse.

Soon after I turned 30, my father didn’t go home. My mother thought he had gone missing. But no, he was just streets away, and officially moved in with his mistress. He announced that they had had a baby boy and applauded his mistress for having given him a son. We found his IVF papers for surrogacy and still he denied it. His mistress never had the baby. His son was bought by money through financial surrogacy overseas. The truth was, there had been a stillborn son before me. I was the daughter that my father never wanted. He always wanted his son back. And so, it is now irreparable. He is my father no more.