Today is my dad’s birthday. And I’ve now been sitting here staring at that sentence for 10 minutes, because I really don’t know what else to say. I don’t have any flowery sentiments to share, even though I really, with all my heart, wish that I did.
I’ve seen Dad a couple of times since everything that happened. Both times, it was...difficult. My anger at him (even though he was clearly sober, even though he was obviously trying to make amends) boiled just below the surface. He moved out of my stepmom’s house at the beginning of this month, and I’ve called him every couple of days just to check in. Even though I’m so mad at him, and despite all of my talk about cutting off all contact, I just can’t bring myself to completely sever the ties. I can’t stand on the shore and watch while he sinks. I’m tied to him, not just genetically, but emotionally too. He’s my dad. Despite all his mistakes, he’s still my dad.
He’s had a couple of slip-ups, but he is going to meetings. It’s his responsibility to beat the disease or let it consume him. For my part, all I can do is check in and pray -- and I’m doing both frequently.
Happy Birthday to the man who named me, who sang me to sleep when I was little, who has always been on my side, who cried the first time he met his grandsons, who has made and continues to make lots of mistakes but who, in spite of it all, still has his daughter's love.