A Letter To My Dad On Father’s Day

I wrote this a few days ago and didn’t know whether to make it public. It’s never an easy thing to have out there, even so long after some of the worst things that happened. But here it is, the honest truth of how I feel. It could be longer but it’s enough.

Dear Dad,

Another Father’s Day is upon us. Our 35th.

We’re not as close as we were on our first. Ever since then we’ve been slowing drifting apart. I will take some responsibility for this, I’ve not made any effort over the past decade but you’ve not made it easy. You’ve never made it easy.

I know things and I remember too. not everything. There are gaping black spots in my mind. Things that have happened that I cannot recall.

Why did we run home and call mum and demand she pick us up that night? What did you do?

I blame you for a lot and it’s hard to move on from that. I feel like I’ve moved on as far as I am ever going to be able.

Beyond that, I think some of the distance between is the fact we have nothing in common. I’m more like mum, I’m quiet and I like to read and I like being alone. I don’t have many friends and I don’t like going out. Although I get my geeky side from you our geeky interests are very different. And I don’t drink anymore either and I like cats (now). I write I work and I believe in fate.

What do you believe in?

I know you love me. I’ve questioned it but my mum said that no matter what, you will always love me.

That’s fine, and being a mum now I understand that.

My dad.

Now I’ve realised I don’t think you love me enough. Not enough to change or enough to make the effort all these years. Not enough to stop drinking. Stop stalking me. Stop the emotional abuse.

I’m 35 and I’m dreading your visit this weekend as much as I ever do.

It is getting easier. I want you to see how big Phineas has gotten, I want you to see my new house. Part of me wants you to move here so you’ll be closer when your health finally declines enough that you can’t travel here anymore. That you can’t really do much at all. We both know it’s going to happen, it’s the reality of Parkinson’s. You say you’d never make me or my sister care for you but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.

You can and have done good things. And I can and will be the best daughter I can be under the circumstances.

We’ll never be close though.

But I can live with that.

Love Your Eldest.


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