I haven’t spoken to my Dad in nine weeks. This is the second longest stint in my thirty years on Earth that I’ve had nothing to do with him. I’m not sure this lack of radio contact is entirely down to choice and necessity but both do play a part. I don’t know when we’ll speak again, I imagine it’ll be when I decide to pick up the ‘phone to call him as he won’t call me. This isn’t because I’ve done wrong by him, far from it, but because he’s a stubborn old soul.
On the eve of my thirtieth birthday, he called me. “I won’t be able to see you tomorrow. Your Aunt has just come out of hospital so we’re going to visit her.”
“Hello Dad. That’s okay, don’t worry.”
“What will you do tomorrow?”
“I already have plans to go to lunch with Mum and her family and then dinner with friends. They’re picking me up at 7pm.”
“Okay, bye.”
I think he was expecting me to be totally devastated that he couldn’t see me, saying I was now set for a shit birthday because he hadn’t factored in time for me. I had set aside time to see him in the afternoon when making plans for my birthday; years of guilt-tripping from him for not seeing him on my birthday have taught me to do so, whether I hear from him in the lead up to my day or not. And I did think he’d want to see me on my thirtieth birthday but I wasn’t upset when he told me he’d made other plans; his sister-in-law of thirty-four years had just had brain surgery, of course I understood visiting her was important to him.
I woke up on my birthday to a load of text messages, Facebook messages and tweets wishing me well on my very special day. The next few hours were filled with present opening, a lovely breakfast and general birthday merriment, as well as the annual secret competition between the elders of my family – Who Can Call The Birthday Girl First. Lunch with the family was wonderful, unconditional love always is, isn’t it? The three hours I’d kept free for Dad were now mine to do with whatever I wished. So I napped – one of my favourite hobbies - and returned the calls and messages of those who’d contacted me through the day. I had received a text from Dad around lunchtime. “Hapy bday. Lov Dad” – that’s not him being down with the kids and using text speak, he just doesn’t spell very well. I hadn’t replied as a) I was at lunch with Mum and her family and I knew he was trying to interrupt our gathering and b) I knew I’d speak to him in the evening.
At 6.50pm, just as I was applying my second layer of mascara, my ‘phone rang. “What are you up to?”
“Hi Dad. I’m getting picked up for dinner in ten minutes.”
“Oh. I wanted to see you.”
“Oh, sorry Dad, you said yesterday you couldn’t see me today.”
“What did you get up to today?”
I told him about what a brilliant day I’d had and how I’d been made to feel special by everyone, expecting him to be thrilled my thirtieth birthday had been a great one. “You’re only saying all that because you haven’t seen me!”
“Please Dad, of all days, don’t start on me today.” And then he hung up. That was the last time we spoke. I think I half expected him to have been in touch a few days later – not an unreasonable expectation for a child around her thirtieth birthday – but he wasn’t. And I’m determined I won’t be in touch with him for a while yet. Life has been, unsurprisingly, less hassle-filled since that day.
I don’t know why Dad is as he is. He is one of five children and none of his three brothers are as stubborn or traditional when it comes to their children as Dad is. He treats my half-sister differently to how he treated me when I was her age (she is seven) but that’s not a bad thing as he needed to change and be more involved in his offspring’s upbringing. He didn’t really participate in any of my “core” life lessons as a child, they were all down to my Mum, so I think it’s healthy that he is the primary parent in his youngest child’s life.
When I was eleven, my Dad stopped talking to me for a long time. My Mum’s eldest sister who was married to my Dad’s eldest brother (it’s not incest, we’ve been through this before!) had left her husband because he’d battered her so she came to stay with us. At that time, we lived near my Mum’s parents so it was the ideal place for my Auntie to be. Dad used to see me every fortnight and, that weekend, collected me from my Grandparents’ before taking me back to his house. His brother happened to call him a few hours after we’d got there and filled Dad in on what had been happening. Dad went apeshit at me for not telling him my Auntie was at ours – as a ten year old, imparting such news wasn’t as important to me as deciding which toy to play with – so he drove me back to my Grandparents’, left me on the doorstep and drove off after he saw me go in the house without saying goodbye. That was an appropriate and reasonable adult reaction, I’m sure you’ll agree. We only started talking again when he had married his second wife and needed to get back in touch to let me know. He turned up at our old house, he didn’t call beforehand, but we’d moved by then, I just happened to be across the road visiting my old neighbour and I saw him through the window so ran out to see him. Dad recalls that time as only being a matter of months. I was almost thirteen when he remarried. Still, to this day, he thinks he did the right thing.
I don’t know why I have left it so long to call Dad. I may have finally accepted that his promises are always empty. Though he means what he says at the time, he rarely delivers. I’m both shocked and disgusted that it’s taken me twenty-three years to realise this (I was seven when my parents separated) and that it took him being crap on my thirtieth birthday for that epiphany. My Mum, who is usually vocal about family matters, hasn’t suggested I call him. She hasn’t really commented on the situation at all. When I was younger and Dad let me down, Mum would tell me to concede and accept that he’d failed to deliver and tell me I should call him. Even whilst I was a child and he didn’t stick to the court arrangements for maintenance payments, Mum insisted I should maintain my relationship with Dad and sent me to see him every two weeks. The ruling was that he should pay £30 every month. He only ever paid once but still Mum used to make me call him every other Wednesday to arrange him picking me up on the Friday that followed. This time she’s leaving it for me to decide when to call.
I think both guilt and duty combined will make me feel I must get in touch with Dad again very soon, all brought to the forefront of my mind by writing this blog post. I may well leave it another week or so though, mainly because I’m enjoying the Dad-free zone, but partly because I don’t know what to say to him. x
