A Conversation with my Father

"How was your day?" I asked dad as he started opening his sandwich. I began to open mine as well, my mouth watering over the food. We sat together at his dining room table, the windows open and the evening sun coming in.

"Good," he replied, taking a bite of his meal.

"How was work?"

He shrugged. "Good."

This man. I took a deep breath and sighed before biting into my own sandwich. Part of me desperately wanted to leave, but I also knew that he never went out besides work. I tried to come over once a week, but the single hour I spent with him oftentimes felt like too much. We never had anything to talk about that wasn't heavy or that wasn't a repeat of last week's conversation. It was the same trivial drivel each time. He'd ask about people in my life that had cut him out and I'd respond that I didn't know about their lives and what they were doing and then he'd make some cutting response about me not knowing and I'd hold my tongue and ask him why he couldn't ask them himself and it would devolve into an argument.

If the conversation wasn't that, then it was stilted. He didn't talk about his coworkers unless I asked specifically about them, same with family and what not. He didn't talk about anything unless prompted. I had no idea how to maintain a relationship with this man if he never had anything to talk about besides anger about the past.

"Dad?"

He looked up from his sandwich. "Yes?"

"Have you ever thought about going to therapy?"

His brow furrowed and a frown quickly overtook his face. "No," he said gruffly.

"Why not?"

"I can't afford it."

"I'll pay for it."

He shook his head. "No, I don't want your money."

I sighed and took another bite of my sandwich before responding. I needed to think this through. "Dad, you believe that life is beautiful right? And that God has given you a life to live?"

He paused from eating his sandwich and looked at me suspiciously. "Yeah."

"Well, if God has given you a beautiful life, why are you refusing to live it by staying in your house every single day of the week? Why are you refusing to allow yourself to be happy and to go out into the world to explore the beauty around you? Do you think you're living the life God gave you?"

Anger glinted in his brown eyes. "What am I supposed to do?"

I dropped my sandwich and folded my arms on the table. "Go out! Meet people, talk to them. Visit family like you did before. Why haven't you visited your brother and sister in law? They always talk about you and want you to come over, but you never do anymore. They're hurting because they want you back. I sincerely think that therapy would help you understand yourself more and allow you to express your feelings in a better way."

"Everyone is busy. Who am I going to talk to? People have lives that I'm not part of. When would we have time to talk? What would we even talk about?" His voice was rising and I shut my eyes briefly, but I needed to get my point across.

"Your friends, dad. You can talk to your friends."

"I talk to them at work."

"Then hang out with them in the evenings."

"For what? I see them every day at work, there's nothing to do."

"Then get a hobby. We can do something together."

"Like what?"

"Whatever you want! You pick."

He shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. He didn't say anything.

"Dad, I really think therapy is something you should do. You tell me every single time I visit to let go of the past and to move forward, but you don't follow your own advice. You're bitter and angry towards mom and her family, and I understand why and I hope you know your feelings are valid, but you can't live like this, alone in your house, resentful and unwilling to be happy."

"I am happy!" He threw his hands up.

"Then why did you stop visiting my aunt and uncle?" I prodded gently.

"Because they don't want me. You heard them on our way back from the road trip to Colorado we took a while ago. They don't want me."

Frustration bubbled within and it took everything in me to be reasonable and not devolve into tears. "Dad, that was two years ago and my uncle apologized for everything he said. They miss you and regret everything that happened in that argument. Everyone was frustrated heading back home and when we missed the turn and got lost, everything just got heated. They love you and miss you. You're not happy."

"Yes, I am."

"Are you still mad at them?"

"No, I'm not." He leaned back in his chair and huffed.

"Then why don't you visit them?"

"I already told you, they don't want me."

I shook my head and looked up at the ceiling. "Dad, they feel so bad and they apologized. What more do you want them to do to prove to you that they want you back? You used to visit them every Saturday, now they have to call to get you to come over and eat dinner with them."

He remained silent.

As much as I tried to stop them, tears started to make my eyes prickle. "Dad, I will pay for therapy. Hell, if you want, we can go together, but you aren't happy and you're not okay. God only helps those that help themselves and you're not helping yourself by refusing to go out and choosing to be by yourself. I want you to be happy and healthy. I don't want you to feel angry towards women, or bitter towards the world. Even your sister came to me and said she thought you should go to therapy. When your mom died, your sister went to therapy because she knew she wasn't okay and she was willing to acknowledge that. Why can't you do that for yourself?"

"They wouldn't tell me anything useful," he said, his voice scathing and loud. I shook my head and put my palms to my eyes in an attempt to keep the tears back, but I could feel wetness seeping out regardless.

"How would you know if you haven't ever gone, dad?" I asked. A tremor was in my voice and I couldn't force it away no matter how many times I tried to calm myself by breathing in deeply.

"Because I know," he emphasized, drawing out the words in a condescending manner. "I don't need it. I'm fine."

But he wasn't okay and as I stared at him in silence, I realized I couldn't win any battle against him. At sixty-six years old, he didn't want to go to therapy to talk about divorcing my mom or the fact that he felt like a victim of everything and everyone. Tears dripped from my eyes and onto my sandwich, but I didn't even care anymore. I wanted him happy and okay or as close to it as possible.

"Dad, please. Everyone is worried about you and that's why I'm talking to you as your daughter and as someone who loves you. I want you happy and willing to go out into the world to find love again or even just happiness."

He scoffed. "Your mother ruined me. I gave her everything and anything she wanted and look at what she did. She left me and her family helped. She wanted to take everything from me in the divorce. I haven't shown you the document she filed with what she was asking for. I gave her the house without a fight, but she wanted more than just that."

"I know, dad, but you can't live like this for the rest of your life. You did so much for everyone else, but you have to fight for yourself, too. God can't help you if you don't allow it. Please, dad."

"No, I don't want to, I don't have the money."

"I will pay!" I sobbed. "I have the money, don't worry about that."

"I don't want your money!" he shouted. "I don't want it! I don't want your fucking money."

I just stared at him, my face red and wet. I wrapped up my sandwich and got my keys, standing up from the table.

"Don't just leave."

I ignored him and went out into the living room before reaching the front door. He followed behind me, but I didn't bother to look back.

"Fine, be that way," he called out when I reached the end of his driveway. I just walked to my car and unlocked it, tossing the sandwich into the passenger seat before getting in. He stood at the end of the driveway, the sun still shining, although much less than before. I started my car and turned on my headlights, driving away from his house. By the time I got to the main road, sobs started to come out of me in heaving gasps.

I'd tried and I'd failed, but I couldn't help people who didn't want it. If my dad wanted to remain bitter and angry, then that was what he would be. I didn't believe in God, and at that moment, I felt reassured in my lack of belief.

I wanted my dad happy, but he didn't want that for himself, and I had to let it go.

Taking deep breaths as I drove, I felt my heart settle and even though my eyes hurt, my shoulders felt lighter.

Do the best with what you have. So long as you do that, you'll be okay.

And I had faith that I would be, even if he remained the way he was.