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Letters to My Daughter
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My Daddy was buried two days ago. It had been six days since he passed away and I was still in a fog of despair. You see, my father wasn't like a lot of dads I'd heard about over my lifetime. He was my beacon of hope, my whisperer, when I couldn't get out of my head. My Dad was my rock and I leaned on him, probably overburdening him with my troubles through the years. He took it all, and yes, I knew that meant he loved me dearly.
I'd heard the eulogies but they passed through one ear and out the other. My brother and sister said some wonderful things about the man; even his stepchildren, who came into his life later on, said some things that took me aback, praising him for helping to make them whole. Some of those were things I'd never heard before since I was way too busy with my own screwed-up life to care.
This day was another in a succession of shitty days since he died. The family was going through his personal belongings. My father and his wife lived in a pretty small home. Even though it was a beautiful little cottage not far from the lake in their hometown, it was barely bigger than a double-wide mobile home. I still had a hard time calling her Mom because she came into his life after I was an adult.
In the backyard was his office, another 500-square-foot outbuilding and I'd been given the unpleasant task of starting there, going through some storage bins that contained his memories of us, many from our youth.
In that respect, my father and I were not alike. As I perused the trinkets and junk, it struck me that we were different in many respects. 'Why would he keep these trophies,' I asked myself.
Sure, he coached our teams and there were even keepsakes from my younger sister's 'miracle season' soccer team, as we'd coined it when I helped as an assistant coach. My father's forte and the secret of his success was to make everyone on the team just a bit, or sometimes, a lot better than when they started rather than just focusing on the players who already had skills. That magical season ended with us winning the championship game, minus two of our three best players. It's a hard day to forget, considering I didn't give us a chance in hell of pulling it off.
But time and again, that's what I'd heard in those eulogies the previous day, whether it be personal or professional; Dad always seemed to pull a rabbit out.
Wrapped in some plastic film, I saw papers and an envelope that made me curious. I carefully unwrapped the stack and right there on top was an envelope marked "Debra;" that's my name, Debra Holt, daughter of the deceased Robert Holt.
Beneath my name, it said, "Letters to my daughter." A tear left my eye and traveled down my cheek in anticipation of what I might find inside. Surely, he'd said everything of value to me while he was still alive. Or had he?
"Deb," is how it started out and I almost lost it right there. Everything was too fresh. Through blurry eyes, it would have been impossible not to read the next words without turning away.
"Sorry, kiddo," he started, "I thought of a few things I've left unsaid. I guess that makes me somewhat of a coward and I hope that doesn't make you think less of me."
I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. The fact that there were seven or eight pages meant that by his standard, he was indeed a coward of sorts. I couldn't take it right then. The letter was back in the box only until my brain kicked in and then I folded it and put it in my pocket instead.
I went into the en suite bathroom so no one else saw me and wiped my eyes. After going to the bathroom and finding my siblings, I made an excuse to do a food run and asked what everyone wanted. I took their orders and headed out to face my misery in private.
And certainly, I knew it would be pure misery. My father may have been my rock and he had been many things to many people during his life, but I was not my father; I was nothing short of a disappointment. Every time I leaned on my dad, he also leaned into me, and not always in a good way. We'd had dozens of not-so-family-friendly conversations throughout my adult life. I often lived in the shadow of my father and that simple fact pissed me off to no end.
It hadn't always been that way. In truth, I saw more of Daddy's faulty side when I was still a child. It made perfect sense because he was younger then and hadn't learned from his mistakes yet.
My mother was a kind and considerate person, as I recall. I recall because she'd made some friends from work by the time I was four and started hanging around them rather than us. They were a bad influence on her but I didn't understand that until many years later.
Dad fought with her almost every day for a year, it seemed. She was adamant and even degrading to him, making sure he knew she was the boss of herself. It was her time and it was her body, I remember hearing her tell him once. As a kid, I recall being afraid and anxious a lot. It's weird but even at that young age I somehow knew they weren't destined to stay together long. After some of the ugly fights and vile words, I found myself wanting them to break up.
It didn't take too long to get my wish. Again, at a much later date, I learned that one of the guys she was meeting at the bar had introduced her to cocaine and when Dad found out, he had his lawyer lay it all out for her. She disappeared from our lives. My brother and sister were too young to remember anything of substance about her but not me.
I pulled into the Taco Bell parking lot, into one of the spots that provided some shade, and took out the letter.
"My dearest Deb," the letter began, "I've forgiven your Mother and, if you haven't, you should. It isn't healthy to hold onto those negative emotions because they grind you down little by little over time, culminating in a special kind of misery. As the song says, "Bitterness keeps you from flying."
"I married your mom when both of us were way too young. I'm not excusing her behavior or mine; that would be counter-productive. I only want you to understand the pitfalls of our relationship. While I worked too many hours to make ends meet, we also didn't consider any sort of protection. We wanted kids so I never gave it much thought until I realized that we couldn't afford to keep making babies so close together. Long after it dawned on me that your mom was stuck raising three children and I was never all that much help.
"Sure," he continued, "I changed diapers, cooked meals, and did all the fatherly things, but emotionally, I was of no help to her. Because of that, I believe she sought comfort first with her girlfriends and later, in the arms of her lovers. To be clear, I didn't make those poor decisions for her but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have anything to do with it. Remember that time I told you it was wise to always take fifty-one percent of the fault in your broken relationships? I want you to know I'm sorry for failing you."
Right off the bat, what he was asking of me would be hard to do. Maria Grimes, my mother, only ever visited me three times after she left. One of those times, she was so wasted off her ass, that she could barely stand. I knew she left a hole in my heart or my soul because I'd recently come to terms with that.
By the time I was in middle school, Dad had remarried. Sarah was a stout, no-nonsense woman. In her previous life, she'd been a committed foster parent so I think Dad expected she'd be great with his children. At least he'd vetted her qualifications. Lots of foster parents get a bad rap and some for good reason. The fact that many of her foster kids remained in contact after they came of age told a positive story.
The thing was, I didn't like her. There was no particular reason, either; I just didn't.
One of my biggest and probably worst decisions was that impetuous weekend after I came of age. It led me to many things that held me back for years afterward.
I went back to the letter and started reading the next section.
"Deb," he said. "That Saturday after your eighteenth birthday, when you told us you were leaving home, shell-shocked me. When you started yelling at Sarah and stormed out the door, I followed you. Sarah grabbed my arm and told me, "Let her go."
"That led to a vicious fight that neither of us could ever forget. You know we'd rarely ever raised our voices at each other in anger."
I hadn't known that until almost a decade later when my brother told me about it. I'd assumed that Dad had taken her side and let me go. It was a foolish idea because there wasn't any side to take. I'd gotten mad and decided that it was time for me to be on my own and that was that.
"You didn't even have any shoes on your feet when you left," the letter went on. "No bags, just your backpack, and then when I finally stopped yelling at Sarah, I stepped out front and you were just... gone. I nearly had a heart attack that day. I kept pacing with this sharp pain in my chest while I struggled to breathe at times. I've already told you that but I never said how angry I was at you. I felt betrayed and deserted. After everything I'd done to make your life better, you just left me."
I knew that too. My brother had given me a brutal assessment of the remainder of that day. He'd told me that my selfishness had an acute effect on the entire family for months. I hadn't given a care. That weekend was only a few months before graduation and a friend of mine, who'd graduated the year before, wanted me to move in with her. The idea of independence overtook me and my friend did what she could to feed my desires. She had a thing for me, it turned out. When she found out I didn't play on that side of the fence she kicked me out.
I reread his last sentence. What was left dangling was as hurtful as what he said; "You just left me..." he said, but really meant, "just like your mother." That stung and I found myself involuntarily wiping my eyes. In all my planning that spring, I'd never considered my actions would hurt the man I loved the most.
"I mistook Sarah's words to mean that she didn't care about you when in reality, she was giving me some of the best advice of our relationship. When I couldn't find you that first month, I took it out on her, which led to our separation, and almost ended us."
I knew little bits of that. At the time I was enjoying my freedom. Dad was a great man in my eyes but in my heart, he'd been quite hard on me growing up. Like most kids, I probably over-emphasized his hardness. Looking back, he treated us all equally. I admit I was quite happy with myself when I heard that he and Sarah had separated. I never expected them to reconcile. The fact that Sarah eventually forgave me made me feel all the worse later in life.
"When I finally understood that your leaving wasn't Sarah's fault," I continued reading. "I began to do everything in my power to show her how sorry I was. Even with that, it took her a long time to trust and forgive me. I never used that period in our lives to teach you exactly how to forgive or be remorseful, so I failed you again."
I never saw my dad as a failure and wasn't sure I wanted to read any more of that letter. I drove up to the drive-through and ordered from the list my brother had given me. I'd only finished reading the first page and a half.
On the way back to the house, I briefly thought about my first day of Kindergarten. Maria was nowhere to be found as usual and it was just me and Dad. I was nervous but also excited to start school. My father introduced himself to my teacher, who was out front greeting people. Then he said hello to some neighbors. As he started walking back to the car after giving me a big kiss and hug, I saw a girl my age crying hard. She was scared.
I wasn't sure what to do at first. No grown-up came to comfort her. I walked over and hugged her and she hugged me back. I heard some of the adults saying things like, 'Isn't that the cutest thing ever,' and 'What a sweet little girl.'
When I let go, she told me her name was Laurie and I told her mine. Someone with a huge camera walked up to us and asked me to put my arm around her shoulder. He squatted onto one knee and took our picture. I learned the next day we were in the newspaper but was too young to understand what that meant.
After the picture, I happened to look in the direction Dad had gone and there he was staring at me. His look of pride permeated my heart and soul and, I swear, that was the first day I cognitively understood how much I meant to him.
The rest of my school life was pretty unremarkable. Dad signed me up for softball and I didn't do well. The next season, he volunteered to coach, hoping to help me. That didn't work. Then came soccer with the same results. My teacher took Dad and Sarah aside at the parent-teacher conference when I was in second grade. A week later, I was at the pediatrician getting checked and we left with a small packet of pills. I had to take them twice per day.
One month later, Dad walked in the door huffing and puffing. I knew something happened. After some back and forth with Sarah, he pulled me up on his lap.
"Deb," he asked, "tell me exactly how you feel when you take your medicine. Describe the feelings and your thoughts." I never took those pills again which I later found out were called Ritalin.
Right after I started in the seventh grade, Dad and Sarah took me to the YMCA and I began to swim. Even with a decent diet at home, my weight had begun to increase and they wanted me to start an exercise regimen.
A funny thing, water is - at least for me - I took to it like a... well, you get it. I overheard the instructor talking to my dad one day after swim practice.
"She's a natural," the instructor complimented. "I don't want you to get your hopes up, though. Most of these girls have spent significant time in the water since they were four or even younger."
My dad snarled at her. "I'm going to need you to adjust your attitude," he almost commanded. "Just because she's my kid doesn't mean she'll be an Olympic swimmer or even excel, but my daughter has overcome every adversity that's ever come her way. You be the coach and leave the motivating to me, okay?"
By the ninth grade, I made the freshmen swim team easily and often won my heats in the 100 backstroke and all distances in breaststroke. Even before homecoming, the water polo coach approached me about doing that as a winter sport to keep me in 'swimmer' shape. I finally found my sport!
Dad made every game he could. That man worked hard; I knew but learned later just how hard. On top of that, he was coaching my younger sister in soccer and did Cub Scouts with my brother. During those years, he often looked exhausted and he had developed a short fuse when any of us pushed him too much.
Returning with our meals, I sat at the old kitchen table, eating with my siblings and reminiscing about our childhood. My brother recounted a story about the scout troop fossil hunting in the foothills and how he came upon a rattlesnake. My brother, Russell, laid it on thick, explaining how he'd frozen but then Dad wrapped a big arm around his chest and pulled him back just in the nick of time. My mind drifted to how Russ and Dad had such a sudden and total falling out right after Russ had gotten married. I knew through conversations that Dad was completely heartbroken about that with no idea how to repair things.
It had been a long day and my younger sister, Kristy, as well as my brother, and I, needed to go spend some time with our own families. We all agreed to meet back at the house by ten in the morning.
Bailey, my husband, met me at our door, reaching for a hug. He knew me well and it didn't take a Rhodes scholar to understand what a taxing day I'd had. He held me tightly, helping to relax my back and shoulders. Before he could start a conversation, I was bombarded by our two very rambunctious boys.
Our dinner discussion was all over the place. The kids, Chris and Nelson, vacillated between kind memories of their grandfather to somber minutes when no one spoke. It dawned on me just how much Dad affected their lives, too. We all felt a huge loss.
Chris was staying with a friend that night and, after his younger brother, Nelson, went to bed, Bailey asked about my day. He was a good man, always saying the right thing or asking the right questions. He deeply cared about me and the boys, even though they weren't his. I vaguely mentioned the letter and, later, when he hinted at going to bed, I told him I'd be in shortly. He knew I needed the space.
I grabbed my second Mike's Hard Lemonade since I'd been home and sat alone in the living room to resume my reading. Looking around, I saw things through new eyes. All of the stuff we'd accumulated over time - none of it - would have been possible, without my dad. He loved me but he also knew when he needed to pull my head out of my ass. I took out the letter again.
"You know I've always been proud of you, kiddo," the next paragraph started, "except for that day, days, I guess where I wanted to strangle you."
God, why was he going there? I'd read a whole sentence and already, I badly wanted to put that paper back in the envelope. My mind wandered back to that horrible day.
David, my first husband, was a good man and the father of my two sons. I introduced my dad to him a year and a few months after I'd moved out. Our front door wouldn't close because something on the bottom of it came off. I asked Dad to meet me at Home Depot so I didn't get the wrong thing.
David's name preceded him in terms of his heritage. Most people meeting him for the first time expected an Anglo kid but David's mother was full-blooded Hispanic and David definitely favored his mother's features. Dad seemed surprised too. He only knew David's name until that meeting. David also liked to dress like a gangster which only brought more looks of pity in my direction. It was me, David, and his cousin, Jose, whom Dad encountered that day. Jose and my boyfriend were using gang slang mixed with a lot of swear words. I could literally feel the powder keg inside my dad gaining pressure.
Finally, Dad looked at David after one of many "F" words and asked him, "Are you some kind of tough guy, is that it?" His voice was so matter-of-fact that it made both David and Jose stop on a dime, staring at him.
"We just playin', Padre," Jose said like he wanted to intimidate my father. He wasn't shaken in the least.
"You're either in some gang or you're not," Dad responded.
He remained quiet as he scanned the section for the part he was looking for. Jose spoke first, a mistake.
"Yo, I was in a gang but then I did time." Dad never acknowledged him, still scanning the shelf. Then he chuckled.
"You never did time," still not looking at either of them. "There's a big difference between jail and prison. You're a couple of wanna-be Cholos. Maybe Cholas."
David got his chest all puffed out and I wanted to hide somewhere. Nobody talked to David like that. But then again, I'd never seen anyone mouth off to my dad either.
Dad turned to face David directly, giving a sideways glance at Jose before focusing all his attention on David. "You want to find out what prison is like?" he stated instead of asking.
"Then disrespect my daughter," My heart leaped in my chest. Both of them were close enough to reach the other. "You want to find out what the hospital or morgue is like, then lay hands on her. Say 'Yes, sir,' if you 'comprendo'. She's had enough of that in her life already and I won't tolerate more of it from some fake Bandito."
David earned a lot more of my love that day but, to be honest, he also lost some of my respect. I studied his expression in those few seconds before he spoke and I could see the indecision. He wanted to lash out and pummel my dad. He certainly knew what would happen if he didn't; his cousin standing right there as a witness. He'd probably get roasted alive later that night with Jose recounting his chicken-shit back down while drinking Coronas with their other friends.
But my boyfriend surprised me. He looked my dad straight in the eye and said, too loudly, "Yes, sir."
"Alright," Dad said holding his tough expression, "apologize to my kid for cussing in public and making an ass out of yourself."
David looked at me and apologized. I was floored.
Fast forward five-and-a-half years and two kids later. David and I were doing pretty well. Both his father and mine had put a down payment on a double-wide mobile home for us. I worked for a household-name delivery service company. Money was okay but David and I were drifting a bit. I couldn't put my finger on it. Our daily interaction was fine but our intimacy was down significantly. I put it off to our busy lives and the demands on our time.
Still, I had everything I'd ever dreamed of.
Avi Albright (not his given surname) worked the second shift in the warehouse at the company where I worked days. He was half Egyptian, half Lebanese. To me and my co-workers, he was a bronzed god. Avi had that certain... I don't know, soave faire, I guess. He did everything with flare. His laugh was contagious; and his smile, too. He could make me melt anytime he said something to me.
He wasn't a pompous man, not by a long shot. The people on his team respected him and his results proved that. In business, I saw him as a person to emulate. When Avi began his pursuit of me, I'm ashamed to say that I barely put up a fight. My resistance lasted only a few weeks and I could see he knew the exact minute when he had me. I made all the usual excuses in my head.
For a long time, I blamed my phone for my life-altering dilemma instead of myself. David expected me home late anyway. Many times, I'd had to stay for the second shift due to someone calling out but the sex was so incredible, I fell asleep with the volume off on my phone. What little of the night that remained, Avi and I slept through.
Pure panic set in when, at eight-thirty, I awoke to my phone vibrating on the nightstand of that motel. More than twenty messages and my dad's face filled the screen with the incoming call. In the condition I was in, I couldn't answer.
I've blocked out much of what happened that morning. Had my phone shown David's face, instead of my father's, I would have spent the time dressing to make up another lie to cover for the first one. One of the selectors on the third shift called out and we had an exceptionally heavy night. I was too tired to drive and slept in my car. One of my friends was having major troubles at home. David was such a sweet man, he'd likely have believed any of those.
Not my dad. As I stared at his face on the screen, I knew I was in deep shit. He already knew what I'd done. Even if he didn't, he'd know the moment I tried to lie. If David called my Dad looking for me, I was sunk. My marriage would likely not recover. All for a night of stupid, great sex.
>>>>
I didn't even realize I'd been crying. That part of my life wasn't something I liked to remember and I needed to get through whatever my dad was trying to say here.
"You need to know," the letter said, "I've given some of our money to the kids' college fund. You'll find out about it at the reading of the will anyway; that's why I scheduled it for a month after my funeral. I put it under David's name in a trust. I like that kid. He turned out a lot better than I ever thought after that day in Home Depot."
That didn't surprise me. Dad saw David in a far better light as the years went on. I think David ended up checking all the boxes for my dad. The way he excelled at being a father probably had more to do with that than anything else.
"We've talked many times about your indiscretion," he was trying to be kind, even in death. "I've often wondered if my reaction to David that first day didn't sour the cream just a little between the two of you. Still, you had the opportunity to learn how to respect a man. You had Sarah even though Maria couldn't respect anyone if her life depended on it.
"I should have made sure you were learning instead of assuming," he said in his words. "And I shouldn't have challenged David the first time I met him. The things you did wrong, you did to yourself but, again, I believe I failed you."
If this was how his letter was going to go, I didn't want to read it. He didn't fail me. What the hell was he talking about? He was the best dad anyone could ever have.
I tried to rest on the couch. I almost fell asleep a few times, but the aftermath of what I'd done to David and my family kept haunting my thoughts. David and my dad were standing in the driveway when I pulled up. Both were on their phones. Dad saw me first and disconnected whatever call he was on. Just as I predicted, I saw his worried face as he approached my car, that is, until he saw mine. He knew.
He wasn't the only one. I later realized that I didn't spend nearly enough time before leaving Avi's apartment, fixing my face and hair or trying to hide the evidence of what I'd done. The kids were at the mall with Sarah, probably at Dad's suggestion.
When David saw me get out of the car, he stared for only a second or two before turning his back on me and leaving. I didn't speak to him for four days even though I texted him multiple times every one of those days.
Finally, we talked, meeting in a quaint Mexican restaurant near our home. I learned he'd been living with his folks and seeing the kids at my folks' place. Myself, I was such a mess, I'd barely paid attention to the comings and goings.
David surprised me by asking questions instead of making demands. I'd expected him to show up with a manilla envelope. He'd always been very decisive. I answered his questions with complete honesty. No, I didn't love Avi. No, I didn't fall out of love with David. The big question that I couldn't answer was 'why?'
I left the restaurant feeling... well, ecstatic. For the first time, I saw a path to save our marriage and maybe even build on our relationship. David and I took it slowly. We met many times over the next four months and discussed some deep, true feelings. Looking back, they weren't nearly as deep as they seemed on the surface.
In the fifth month, David agreed to move home and for us to try again. The boys were giddy with excitement and yearned for their old lives. I'd had dozens of conversations with Dad and Sarah, about what forgiveness and remorse would look like. I felt he was determined to get me straightened out.
The day David walked back through our front door I was walking on air - the best day of my life - or so it seemed. But it took less than a full afternoon and evening to realize he wasn't there for me. He was there for us, meaning he was there for his children. The special meal I'd prepared and the pie I'd baked to celebrate our family's reunion was barely mentioned. I wasn't a very good cook and an even worse baker. I told myself to relax, that the boys were destined to monopolize his time right then.
That first night was worse than the preceding hours. David crawled into his side of the bed after doing his nightly routine. Watching him prepare for bed and the next day - the familiarity of it - made me smile with an inner warmth.
Getting into bed, he fluffed his pillow and pulled up the covers. I'd been so mesmerized watching him, I sort of forgot how I'd planned to thank him for his grace and forgiveness. But David stopped short, just holding the sheet and blanket. He was... looking at me, staring, his gaze unrecognizable.
"Good night, Deb," he stated without emotion. Then he kissed my cheek before rolling in the opposite direction, giving me his back, and pulled the blankets up over his neck.
That's the second day I could never forget, God knows I've tried. I held my tears and sobs until his breathing told me he was asleep. He may have heard my sniffles just before nodding off. When I was sure, I crept out of bed and into our bathroom and slid down the wall between our toilet and sink.
I'd agonized many a night when we fought over the phone. I understood his pain and the anger it caused, or at least I thought I did, but I guess I never figured out how differently men and women deal with infidelity. For me, since I didn't love Avi, it was simply great fucking. When it was over, it was over. We commit to moving on and repairing together what was damaged. My husband looked at it so much differently and I didn't realize until after we split. To him, the trust in me was gone, the commitment irrevocably broken by my indiscretion. Apparently, men have longer memories or are unprepared to simply move on.
It was crushing every time I thought we were making progress, only to have him lash out in a new round of slurs and expletives. I could feel his frustration and disappointment in me. Dad would always try to calm my fears when we'd talk afterward. He told me I needed to learn to understand what my actions had caused and then figure out how to make David feel whole again. I never did despite thinking I had been doing my damnedest.
I only thought I knew what crushing felt like. As I sat there with my arms hugging my knees, I realized how much different it was to feel his anger and pain, instead of hearing about it. The man in our bed was a new, more resolved one, indifferent and cold. His hatred would have been far easier to endure.
Over the next week, all my fears from that first night were proven. He treated the kids as always - warm and loving - but when they left the room or the house, he just gave me a look like one might stare at a stranger in a crowded place, who bumped into you, spilling your hot coffee everywhere.
Needless to say, I never got the chance to 'make it up' to him. Starting the next night, I announced I was going to bed. I'd already stayed up half an hour later than usual hoping he'd engage with me. He said he planned to be up a bit later and would see me in the morning. I just stood there like an idiotic statue.
He looked at me, through me, more like it. Then, a small smile appeared as though he was pleased with himself. He stood and came up to me, giving me another cheek kiss.
I didn't have to do my crying behind closed, locked doors that night. David never came to bed, rather slept on our sofa. David never came to bed ever again. We never slept together, again. He performed his routine with the kids each night when he got home from work. After they went to bed, David either watched sports on TV or he spent time in our small study with the door closed.
I didn't try to get him to talk but maybe I should have. Maybe I should have forced him to engage instead of simply letting him drift. At first, I pleaded with a God I wasn't entirely sure I believed in, to help him find his way back and to give me wisdom to understand. I also asked for guidance on what I needed to do. I wasn't afraid of my husband but his behavior was so foreign, I have to admit that I was just a smidge from being petrified of what he might do if I could evoke any emotion from him.
I also never told dad and I don't know why. That wasn't the whole truth. I was still amazed at how easy it was to lie to myself despite what I'd learned in the years since. I was ashamed. I felt unrelenting guilt. All of that aside, I was so embarrassed, and I didn't want... no, couldn't stand losing my dad's love or respect after it was clear I'd lost my husband's.
The weekends were worse if that's possible. That first month it became apparent David was making plans solely with the boys when I wasn't present. They'd be up early and out of the house on each of the first three Saturdays he'd been back. They'd all come home, sometimes at noon, and sometimes a few hours later. The boys would bring me up to speed on their adventures while David maintained the yard or tinkered with a household repair that needed to be done.
A short eight weeks to the very day, he came home from work and I was waiting for him. There was no alcohol and just slightly warm take-out food laid out to eat. He noticed me at the kitchen table not bothering to look up when he entered.
I told him to sit down and wasted no time in letting him know I was filing for divorce.
"You're divorcing me?" he asked incredulously. "That's rich." In that bizarre moment, I realized it was the first time he'd shown any emotion toward me since his return. That drove my resolve to end our marriage.
"I fucked up, David," I was now the stoic one. "I can't undo that. You can't forgive and I get the impression that forgiveness isn't on the table. I'll forever regret what I did to us and our family; that is totally on me but neither of us deserves to live like this. I can't speak for you but I refuse to live our entire lives as two combatants over just one night of sex. It's not even combat. That, I could maybe deal with until we could work past it but there is nothing between you and me and it is not as if I haven't tried. It is obvious you are here only for the boys, admirable, yes, but I cannot live like this any longer. Since you are leaving me with nothing in the way of a relationship... I know, the one I destroyed... I will no longer allow you to take my self-respect, or your own, for that matter.
His final answer - that one word - is burned into my soul. "Whatever," he said as he left me sitting there. Any doubt I may have had about the level of indifference he had for me was now gone. I wanted to cry right then. I wanted to call my dad and ask if I could come over. Suddenly, I was overcome with a stark realization of what I had done. Was I Marie? As she had left us alone, my actions while not abandonment, in David's mind were a total disregard for anything but myself, just like Marie. I sat still, unable to speak as he left.
I wasn't stupid enough to think that divorcees didn't overcome their troubles and live good if not better lives. I just didn't want to be that person. The person who fucked up and then quit. I was no quitter, regardless of whether I was a slut.
I told myself to suck it up. I remembered what Dad told me in the regional championship game when we both looked across at the other team's 'set' player. She wasn't human, she was a hairless gorilla who had me hopelessly outnumbered in height and weight. I held the records for both hole sets in our school's division - scores and blocks. Ariana, the name that the monster's parents had given her, held the same records for both in her county. I'd have to play her at both ends of the pool.
"You're going to be alright," he encouraged. "She's big but use your head. Think. She looks like a Neanderthal who can't do much thinking. She grabs, you spin, okay?" Dad knew less about water polo than any sport he ever played or coached. Luckily, I was in high school, and he was a spectator. On blind habit, I listened to him intently.
"She's gonna try to get in your head early," he continued. "Don't let her. Simply make yourself a promise right here and now and stick to it. If she outplays you, then so be it. Don't you dare let her out-think you, okay?"
Spinning would have been the wrong thing to do but my dad had given me that pearl of wisdom I needed to be my best self. We lost the game in double overtime but Bertha, as my teammates called her, had her worst game of the season. His words translated to getting out of that pool with my dignity intact, win or lose, and that's exactly what I did.
I had to let David go and I also needed to get out with at least some of my dignity. So that's what I did. I set my first love free all because I got stupid, selfish, and ruined things.
When I finally told my dad three days after my talk with my soon-to-be ex-husband, he was livid. I didn't blame him for not understanding my feelings or my position. I didn't blame him for not understanding women in general. Clearly, I had a poor track record in understanding men, and he with women, Marie at least, was worse. I finally dozed off.
>>>>
The morning was a solemn affair. I caught Bailey studying my face several times and when the kids left the breakfast table to get ready for school, my husband asked me what was wrong.
I told him that besides getting only a little sleep, my father had left me a very personal letter. He asked about it but I deferred, saying I'd only gotten a few pages in. Bailey was a very different man than David. Hell, he was very different from my father. My husband had a knack, a sixth sense when it came to my moods, despite how hard I tried to hide them.
Dad hadn't taught me much that mattered, in my opinion; managing my finances, for example. Things kids need to be productive as adults in a tough world - life skills, I've heard them called. He tried to make my life better because he felt bad about how mine had started but that meant giving in to my needs and demands far too easily. Sarah did the same, except she tried to have deep, meaningful conversations with me to get me to see things from her perspective.
When I left home, I was yearning for freedom. In all the time since I could be proud of one thing: I did it my way. Sure, not everything I did panned out like I wanted, but at least I owned it. Bailey had patience, I had to give him that. He didn't lecture me, he didn't prod. He'd say things like, "That might be one way of doing it but what would happen if you did... this or that?" Sometimes, I even agreed with him.
Over time, he broke through some of my defenses and I respected him for that. The better he got to know me, the harder it became to hide my true self from him. The bigger question was why I hid myself from my husband who, to date, had done nothing but work to gain my complete trust.
"Well," he said with ease and a slight chuckle, "let me know when you're ready to talk. I can't wait to hear all about it." That kind of interaction was par for the course in our relationship. In many ways, it was difficult for me, not to have the constant drama. I even missed it sometimes.
After everyone left the house, I showered and got ready for another day at Dad's house. The letter kept beckoning me so I called my brother and told him I'd be there about an hour late.
I sat on the sofa with a large cup of coffee because I needed the caffeine. I studied my father's handwriting for a minute or two, afraid to dive back in.
When I was young, Dad's handwriting was neat and crisp, in a block format, all caps. The letters here were also capitalized but scribbled with a 'don't give a fuck' attitude. His 'E's" looked like two or three different letters and were hard to discern.
By contrast, Bailey's writing was more feminine, cursive, and creative. I'd certainly moved a far away from men like my father and David. That was probably why Dad's death had been so hard on me. I'd never be able to see him, hold him, talk to him, or argue with him, ever again.
His letter was an omen, perhaps somewhat apocalyptic. There was no way he could have known, of course. No, he was ridding himself of the guilt that ate away inside of him, all because of a worthless, adventurous daughter he couldn't understand. There was no way he knew about Juan.
I'd always been drawn to the brown-skinned men, no matter where in the world they came from. Juan was the latest to enter the plot of my life. Like so many before, he was confident, manly, and aggressive without overdoing it. We were in the long dance of seduction when I received the call about my dad.
Juan was yet another manager at the shipping company. He made his intentions with me clear from day one. He told me straight to my face that he wanted me. Sure, I thought about Bailey and I absolutely remembered the David debacle. By the time I'd been informed Dad was in hospice and had less than a week to live, I'd already convinced myself that I could have Juan, quietly, carefully, without Bailey ever finding out. Then I had to put my life on pause.
I picked up the letter, looking for the place I'd left off.
"... I failed you." He sure had. At least he was man enough to admit it.
"But that ends now." It sure does, because you're gone, you left me, I thought. In a few weeks, Juan and I would be resuming our dance and, for that singular reason, I was glad Dad was no longer with us. I couldn't stand to look Dad in the eye if Juan and I got caught. I looked back at the paper and began to read.
"Deb," Dad's words sounded like a lecture coming. "My biggest failure was not telling you everything about your mother. I thought I was protecting you. If you didn't know what kind of diabolical person she was, you wouldn't have any reason to turn out like her.
"But I was wrong about that," the letter went on. "Much to my disappointment, you've done a fair job of emulating her. Understand me, I'm more disappointed with myself than you. Do you remember what I told you about fifty-one percent of the blame? Well, that's how disappointed I am with myself."
Okay, this was different. Was it possible that he waited until he couldn't face me to tell me off? I'd never seen my father as a coward.
"You see," I continued reading, "your mom wasn't a whore; she was a slut. A bonafide two-bit, round-heeled slut whom I made the mistake of marrying. Later, I made the mistake of impregnating her. I don't mean a mistake because you were born. You made me and gave my life purpose. A mistake because we brought children into the world of whom she could never take care and I was ill-equipped to help her.
"I made other mistakes that I now plan to correct. I gave you way too much rope. That was because I loved you and felt so guilty about your childhood, all that you and your siblings endured because of my sins with Maria. I should have been harder on you; in fact, I should have treated you exactly the way you deserved. It's never too late to do the right thing."
I wasn't sure I wanted to read further. Could he really be comparing me to her? I hated my mother, the bitch. She abandoned us and made life miserable for a couple of years until Dad found Sarah.
"Debra, you have a huge chip on your shoulder," he said in his words. "You're as stubborn as your father and as carefree as your mother, and that's a very bad combination. Bad because you can't ever settle. You can't stop and just breathe. Whenever someone recommends it, you sigh, and think, "What do you know?"
"For that very reason," Dad capitulated, "I've made some moves before I left this world to provide sufficient safety to my family. Not only has the college trust been created in his name, but at the estate reading, you'll find an unusual prenuptial. If you ever cheat on Bailey, David gets my grandchildren half of the time and your current husband gets them the other half. If you refuse to sign that document, you'll be left completely out of my will."
What the fuck?
"The thing is my dearest, darling daughter, I don't trust you." Dad's words cut me to the core. "I've recently discovered that you might be planning to step out on Bailey."
Fuck. How could he know that?
"Yeah, I failed you," he said again. "But you, well, you need to listen to me, just one last time, because life will only get worse for you if you don't take my words to heart. Bailey isn't David. If you break his heart, it will be broken forever and never mend. You'll ruin a good man for your selfish desires.
"It disgusts me," my breath caught on that. "To know that my first child, my own flesh and blood could be such a self-centered person. Love has nothing to do with it. I've always loved you and always will.
"You have to learn that every action has an equal, sometimes painful reaction. You have to learn about the consequences and what they mean for all the people affected by your selfishness. You have to learn it quickly because I can't stand the idea of you breaking other people's hearts the way you have mine."
The lump in my throat had grown and now I couldn't even breathe. Hyperventilating, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I didn't make it to the sink before I had to sit down, bring my knees up to my chest, and try to breathe long and deep through my nose.
My father somehow knew about Juan. He went to his grave knowing what a tramp I was. I wasn't a tramp, but surely, that's what he thought. That knowledge took me over the edge and I wept, far deeper than the day I set David free. For the first time in my life, guilt overtook me, physically, in ways I wasn't prepared for. I must have laid there on the kitchen floor for nearly an hour in the fetal position.
The incomprehensible part was that I had no opportunity to fix it and never would because he was gone. What must he have thought of me as I sat at his bedside? How could he even hide that disappointment from me? What I'd put him through in his final days.
Dark thoughts encircled my mind like black, demonic smoke. I saw the cutlery block on the counter and considered pushing one of them into my heart. That way I could go wherever he was now and try to explain.
Even before that idea left me, another, knowing I was too cowardly to do it, made me violently ill and I threw up all over the floor.
I finally got myself together long enough to drag myself up and noticed the time. There was no way I could go to Dad's house today. I texted my brother telling him a minor emergency had arisen.
I rinsed my mouth and splashed cold water on my face, cleaned up the kitchen and sprayed some Lysol; made a strong cup of coffee. An hour and a half later, I was back on the couch staring at that damned letter like it was the instrument of my doom. Luckily, there was only a page or so left.
"Debra," I could hear his stoic, condemning voice. "You need help. That's not my opinion, that's just a fact, and I'm going to make sure you get it."
He was going to make me do what? I thought.
"I've made an appointment for you to see a therapist on the twenty-third of this month. Again, if you don't go, I've instructed the people handling my estate to lock you out and to let Bailey and David know what you're planning. People at your work will find out, too. I'm past trying or even being able to get you to listen.
"The therapist is one I went to after your mother left us. She's one of the best I've ever met and she already knows your story; known it for many years. I'm sure her skills have improved since I saw her all that time ago. Call this number and confirm the appointment today."
My devastated emotions paused and suddenly, I became enraged. Who in the fuck did Dad think he was? Did he want to control my life from the great beyond? It was my life to live, dammit. He couldn't do this.
By the time I needed to get the boys from school, I'd resigned myself to the fact Dad could, indeed, do what he said. I'd been so tipped over with a wide range of emotions for most of the day that I didn't even read his final two paragraphs. How could he? was my primary thought. Why would he?
I kept it together that night through dinner and even after the kids went to bed. Bailey knew me well enough to leave me alone if I was in a certain mood, left to my own devices to work it out. He must have decided it was one of those times. My brother texted late, asking if I planned to show up the next day. I felt the nasty tone in his words.
My siblings hadn't intruded on the work I'd done two days previous in Dad's study. I found myself going through a box of stuff from when my brother and I were in elementary school. Medals for attendance, things we'd made him in art class, and a stack of small manilla envelopes that contained report cards. All must have carried some sentimental value.
I slipped the rubber band from the envelopes and started going through them one by one. There was a slip of writing paper with its corner hanging out of one. I pulled it out and unfolded it. In my Dad's block handwriting was a note to my step-mom.
"Sarah, don't say anything to her teacher about the medicine if they bring it up. I'm not asking you to lie for her or me. If they ask, just tell them they need to talk to me directly. I know we didn't agree on this one and I really tried to see your point of view. Please try to understand that Deb's been through more than a kid should have to endure. I need to do what I think is right to protect her. It's my job, for the rest of my life."
I'd been called out by my teacher for my lack of attention late into second grade. Ritalin was being passed out like candy by doctors supporting big pharma back then. Many children, like me, suffered from side effects that were worse than the attention deficit. Later, when I was in high school, I figured out talking to some other kids that my dad must have researched the disorder and the medications. I never knew that Sarah was of the opposite opinion.
I reread the note. That was the moment when clarity finally infiltrated my stupid brain. It was personal to him, far more than fifty-one percent. He'd devoted himself to helping me for life all those years ago. Not like some parents who dream about the day their kid flies the coop. He'd invested himself fully and I'd been a major disappointment. I understood his reasoning for being so harsh on me in death. And, most importantly, I received clarity on what he meant by the word "Failure."
>>>>
I held the letter in my less-than-steady hands. There wasn't any reason to open it because I knew every word by heart. I smiled inwardly, remembering how fast I'd made that call to the therapist. That whole ordeal was full of both enlightenment and empowerment.
My dilemma now, at age sixty-eight, was whether or not to include my dad's letter in my own box of goodies for my grown children. I figured it was about time to turn it into a tradition. I was sick but not terminal. COPD has been taking an increasing toll on me over the past few years.
Bailey was always overly concerned about me, making sure I had my inhaler everywhere we went. I'd come to appreciate his kind, soft, and loving ways.
Two weeks after my first appointment with Dad's therapist, I'd blocked Juan's number and a month later, quit my job. The counselor thought it extreme but she didn't know me well enough yet. I was going to make my dad proud of me again even if it killed me.
I outwardly smiled thinking about that, although I was the only one in the room. I was proud of myself for accomplishing my goal. I also wanted my kids to know about my early struggles just like my dad explained things to me. Maybe it would help them and maybe not. They were far better adjusted than my siblings and I had been.
What I didn't dare to do was to come clean with Bailey. I had my reasons for that. I'd given Bailey a good life and I'd put everything I had into our relationship after that day in my father's oversized office. I'd devoted myself to our boys and him and to being a better person. Moreover, I'd devoted myself to being me; to be happy in my own skin, and to enjoy the outcomes of my decisions.
I thought about those last two paragraphs that I'd finally read and slipped the paper from its enclosure one more time to see it with my old eyes.
"You see, Deb," his wise words wrapped up, "failure is a part of life and sometimes can be the best lesson someone can use to teach. Failure - mine and yours - is not finite. It can only be measured by people based on how it affects them. Sometimes our failures can be helpful, sometimes hurtful, and often both.
"I truly hope you find your way, and soon, my dearest daughter. This family needs more successes, more improvement, and more blessings, and far fewer failures."
Putting the letter back in its tattered envelope, I only hoped I'd made my dad finally proud.
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Posted on : Apr 14, 2025
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