Father!

A poignant memory of my father's absenteeism resurfaced while I was discussing my brief military career with my wife. I found myself grappling with a haunting question: if my father had been present during those pivotal moments when I was contemplating whether to leave or extend my service, how different might my path have been if he had been there to offer guidance? My wife sensed the bitterness in my voice, a lingering shadow of a wound that I had never truly forgiven. I reassured her that I had come to terms with my feelings long before his passing, but as the conversation unfolded, I began to wonder if I had genuinely reconciled in full. 

My wife often reminds me of a nurturing mother, embodying the spirit of selflessness. She has devoted her life to the well-being of our children, sacrificing her dreams for their happiness. When I turned sixteen, my mother navigated the challenges of single parenthood, bestowing us a wealth of attention and love. With unwavering determination, she resolved that her boys would not find themselves imprisoned by poor choices or buried too soon. 

After returning home from the seminary, I was met with the stark reality of my parents' divorce, a revelation that felt like a seismic shift in my life. As the eldest, I instinctively assumed the mantle of responsibility, eager to support my mother however I could. My younger brother, just two years my junior, was a spirited force of nature, often testing the bounds of our relationship. With punishment off the table and frustration building, our disagreements frequently erupted into spirited battles, a testament to the complexities of brotherhood amidst the upheaval of our lives.

As a child, I vividly recall seeing my father returning home from work, his big, black lunch box swinging by his side and his trousers rolled up to reveal his weathered ankles. He would call out to us, the laughter of our play echoing in the air, before disappearing into the house to change clothes for the evening ahead. My mother, gentle and soft-spoken like my wife, worked the night shift at the hospital, her hands often tenderly caring for little ones in the pediatrics department. Occasionally, we would hear the distant sounds of their disagreements—sharp words cutting through the air—but those moments were few and far between, like fleeting shadows in the warm glow of our family life.

My father was well-known in the neighborhood for giving pocket change to the kids our age, but we barely got words of encouragement from him. The other kids would tell us what house they saw him in when he should have been home with us. My baby brother expressed his dislike of him, whereas I hid my contempt and disappointment. But, one day, that all changed when I turned seventeen and back home. 

Just before sunset, we heard a knock at the door one evening. It was my father, and we were taken aback to see his arm wrapped in blood-soaked cloths. He asked if he could speak with Mom, hoping she would be able to tend to his injury, as he had been hurt in an altercation. My brother and I felt strongly about not letting him in. However, my mother, a nurse and a compassionate person, chose to help him despite our objections. She carefully treated his wound, stitched him up, and sent him on his way.

Initially, my brother and I were frustrated with her decision. We couldn't understand why she would assist someone who had caused us pain. Mom took the time to explain her reasoning to us, emphasizing her belief in the importance of helping others regardless of their past actions. This experience reminded us of her values and her unwavering kindness, which ultimately served as a lesson in empathy and compassion.

Not long after, Mom received a letter that my father had relocated to another state to stay with his sister. I found myself following in his footsteps by joining the Navy, the same branch of service, at the age of nineteen. My decision was driven by necessity; the military offered a reliable source of income, allowing me to send monthly payments to support Mom. When the day finally came for my discharge from the Navy, a mix of anticipation and apprehension filled me as I had lingering questions for my father. 

However, he had already moved from his sister’s home, leaving no forwarding address. For over two decades, none of us heard from him. It wasn’t until my uncle, his brother, informed Mom that my father had returned, now residing five blocks away in an assisted living facility, that we learned of his presence. 

Despite the passing years, he remained shrouded in embarrassment and shame, refusing to visit us, and ultimately, none of us sought to reconnect with him. Mom wanted us to see him, but we couldn’t bring ourselves. In a striking display of compassion, she would cook him dinner and deliver it herself, fully aware that we held no inclination to see him again. 

Mom dedicated herself to shaping my upbringing, often reiterating the age-old commandment to honor your father and mother. She emphasized that despite everything, he remained my father, urging me to embrace forgiveness as a vital step toward healing and moving beyond the burdens of the past. I was encouraged to rise above my pride and visit him—an idea that lingered for years. 

Finally, in my forties, I confronted this chapter of my life. As I approached the door, my heart raced with anticipation and trepidation. When the door creaked open, I was met by my father, who stood before me with an oxygen tank by his side. The man I once knew as towering and robust appeared diminished, frail, and burdened by time. In an instant, a wave of sympathy washed over me, and I couldn't help but see a reflection of my fears in his weakened state. 

I felt an overwhelming regret as I confronted the image of an unfulfilled life that loomed before me, one I desperately wanted to avoid. My brother, who had grown, married, and settled far away with his family, was now a distant figure in this narrative. He and his wife had embraced the call of duty, joined the military, and built a lovely life, never looking back to acknowledge our father. The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. My father and I apologized and agreed to forgiveness, but were they empty words? We’ll never know.

I must compliment my wife on her wisdom and understanding. She is very much like my mother. I can see that I haven’t let go of my issues with my father. I’m still addressing him as my father, not Dad. I even remember calling him Mister so and so, too. As I have gotten older, I have several unresolved issues to address, a few of which my wife has pointed out.