Hello mother. Hi dad.

I grew up with a single mother. On Christmas Eve, when I was one year old, my mum packed a little suitcase, held me in her arms, and we left the house where we lived with my father, never to return. As expected, I don't remember it, but I've listened to that story so many times that I can even feel the snow falling that day whenever I think about it. I don't remember either many of my father's visits when I was a child, the time he tried to gift me a puppy, or the occasion when he tried to take me out of the country and my mother had to call the police to rescue me from been kidnapped by my own dad. I know all those stories, but I don't remember them. I guess that's what allowed me years later, in my early teens, to enjoy his company, even if it did not last much. 

When I was a kid, life was simple. I spent eleven months a year in the north of the country with my mother, following rules and living a well-scheduled life, and one month of craziness in the south in the summer with my not-so-well-adjusted father. A judge had ruled such distribution when I was little, and none of them ever dared to change it. It was convenient for both of them since it reduced the number of their interactions and allowed me to have a clear schedule of parental life. It was not ideal, but it was clear. Mum was in charge of transforming me into a trustworthy member of society. Dad allowed me to see what people can do for their lives if they dare to dream. My mother had rules about school and free time, time to study, time at home, eating healthy, and sleeping. My father traveled the world, jumped between business opportunities, always ate outside, and loved music, cinema, parties, and everything related. 

When I was twelve, I received a letter from my father. He was leaving the country. "No one understands me," he wrote. "I need to do something for myself, for my happiness," he continued. I read that letter many times and never understood how he could do that to me. My mother was furious, and I did not understand that either because it made her life much easier. They did not have to arrange visits, and she did not have to prepare suitcases. Why was she so angry? 

A few years passed by. I received a handful of postcards with sunny beaches on one side and kisses and good wishes on the other. There was not much to read and no return address, so I never got to reply to him. The truth is that I didn't know what to write either. My estranged father had become an absolute stranger. I lost contact with him and all his family. Separated by thousands of kilometers and without my dad around, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews became ghosts in my life. My mother was the only constant in my life. I grew up with her total dedication to me and the complete abandonment of my father. She was my rock for many years.

Maybe because I always lived with my mother and rarely visited anyone else, my greatest wish was always to feel part of a big family. My mum always took that idea of mine as a sign of ungratefulness, while I thought it was just a sign of wanting to live more. We never agreed on who was right. When I was eighteen, I decided I should do something about it and try to reconnect with the family I already had. Once my first year of university ended, I entered for the first time alone on a train to cross the country and spend a week with my aunt and uncle. To my surprise, that decision triggered another one from their side, and without us knowing about it, they scheduled a visit from my father simultaneously. I had not seen him for five years, and when I saw his face for the first time, the only thing I could say was... "Hi." After that, everything was as easy as before: movies, books, music, and travel. I discovered he was the perfect uncle to my cousins, the world traveler who would tell incredible stories and bring with him the most spectacular gifts. I secretly wished he was my uncle and not my father those days. When the week in the South ended, he took me to the train station and asked me if I would like him to visit after his holiday around the world, two months later. Right there, it seemed a good idea. I didn't think much before saying yes. I heard the whistle marking the departure when he hugged me and whispered in my ear, "I love you." I rushed out of his arms, entered the train, and sat while tears started covering my face. I cried for a whole hour, looking at the dry fields outside. I never thought three words, those words, could hurt so much. Unfortunately, that was not the worst he had ever told me.

Two months later, I saw him again. I had just finished my last exams and was tired after many sleepless nights. Still, I was excited because it was the first time he visited me. He would not pick me up and take me to the other side of the country. He was about to spend time with me, in my own place, for the first time ever. 

He did not come over. He called and told me he had arrived at his hotel, and I asked him to meet me in the same corner I used to meet a friend of mine when we walked together to elementary school. It seemed to me a good start for him to know how my life used to be. Once more, when we met, we spoke about everything but us. We talked and walked in the city until dark, then sat on a park bench. I saw the kids playing, parents calling for them, and families strolling together. I gained courage, who knows how, and asked him why he had left.

I don't think I surprised him much. His explanation was calm and clear. He just had to go to do what he wanted to. He had never considered it would cause me trouble since he knew my mother would care for me. He never thought thirty days per year could make a significant difference in our lives. He was sure I would understand it... and the worst of it was to realize he was right. I tried to be as calm and cold as he was, but no one had ever taught me such a skill. I told him my mother was struggling to keep me in university. I asked him to support me financially since he had cut any support on my eighteenth birthday. I knew he was successful, and I was sure it was nothing much for him, but I did not know what kind of conversation I had started: "I am a businessman," he replied. Those numbers do not make a good business case," he continued. "it would be different if you lived with me," he said, "but I will not pay for you to stay here." Was my father blackmailing me? Or was he concerned about the school I'd chosen and where I lived? I thought about my mother. She was unhappy about that visit but had not forbidden it. She was not sure where our conversation could lead. Now, he was telling me I should leave her. I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach, and my head was spinning. My legs trembled when I stood up and looked at that man sitting on the bench.

"You are what you are and don't want to be a father," I told him. "And I don't want to have a father like you either. You can go your way".

I walked away from him, the bench, his hotel, and my house. I didn't look back, scared of what I could see if I turned my face or, even worse, listened to anything else he could say. I walked for hours before returning home when I had to explain what had happened to my mother. I was in shock, and she was furious, but not for the reason I would expect. She did not care about what he had said but despised my attempt to free ourselves from his shadow. She told me I had no right to decide the course of their lives. She said, once more, how ungrateful I was, not caring about my parents and wanting to end our relationship. Once more, I did not understand. 

More years passed by. I devoted my time to studying and made new friends on the way. My father disappeared from my life, as I had asked him, and my mother still resented me for it, but we rarely spoke about it. It was easier to keep on going with our lives as if we had nothing to discuss until it was clear that we did not argue or talk about anything. Little by little, my rock became sand, slowing my gears. She resented me for stopping her life, and I started to feel the same when I noticed I had become the thing she hated the most: young, hungry for success and adventure, free of responsibilities... to her eyes, I had become my father, to mine, I had to run away from her. 

I moved out of the country. Me too. I got a job offer, my first, and I took it. I left behind my friends, mother, and all I'd known until there. I started my adult life, my own fresh start. I had enough money, shared a house, had a work that challenged me, and had friends that had become a family. I talked with my mother on the phone but quickly learned that not everything could be shared, and I was okay with it. I promised myself I would never become her or my father. I would be me... and then someone else called.

It was late at night when a number I did not recognize popped up on my cell phone. The voice on the other side was from someone I had not spoken with for years, a woman, one of my father's sisters. "He is ill," she told me, "in the hospital, terminal." We spoke for a few minutes, and based on her story about his state, I decided to pay him a visit the next day. I drove for seven hours during the night and arrived at his hospital in the morning in my old car with no air conditioning or conditions for such a trip. I made it. Once there, I asked for his room number, announced myself as his daughter, and took the elevator to his floor, the oncology area. 

I found a skinny, pale man. I found a shadow of who I had once known. He smiled at me, and I said... "Hi." Once more, we spoke about books, movies, and music. He told me I should not waste my life working for others but look for something that made me happy. I hated him for that, but I did not tell him. We even laughed about silly things but did not discuss what had happened the last time we'd seen each other. When the visitor's hours ended, I promised I'd visit again, returned to my car, drove too many hours back home, and acted as if nothing had happened. When my mother called me that night, and I told her I'd seen him, she was shocked, but not because I'd driven fourteen hours in a day or because my father seemed to be dying. She was angry at me because I had not asked her to go with me. Once more, I was in the middle of those adults behaving like children. That day, I resented both of them equally for putting me in that impossible situation.

I returned to the hospital a couple of weeks later, days before Christmas. I saw my father, the rest of his family, and some of his friends. I did not speak much with him because there were so many people around him, but I observed how they all behaved by his side and how different they seemed once they left the room and met in the corridor. Smiles turned into silent cries, and the positive energy they seemed to share with him disappeared as soon as they crossed the door on their way out. One of my aunts stopped me in the corridor before I returned home. "You will spend Christmas with him, right?" she asked me. I had only spent once such time with their family, the one I remember as the most miserable ever, so the idea did not jump at me as fabulous. In fact, I did not understand why anyone wanted me to spend those days with them. I had never been part of their lives like that. They did not miss me; they needed me, and I did not like it. On my way home, driving on the highway, I listed the reasons to spend Christmas with my father. Someone had asked me to, but not him. I was expected to do things for the family, but he had stopped acting as my father a long time before. I could be part of something bigger... but then my mother would be alone. Once I arrived at my place, exhausted physically and fully drained mentally, I texted my aunt: "I'm not coming. Sorry."

Christmas passed uneventfully and full of regret because not spending time with my father meant not being able to solve our disagreements. On the other hand, no one was about to let me discuss anything. Those were his last days, after all. Whatever I thought I should resolve seemed to be my problem and no one else's. A few weeks later, I got another call but could not drive. I got on a train and went to the hospital as soon as possible. I had many thoughts in my head; I knew how to start speaking with him... and then, I entered the room. "Hi," I said to the dozen people around the bed. His eyes were closed, and a timid smile curved his lips. "He is in a coma," someone told me. I walked towards the bed, but there were so many people I couldn't even touch it. The doctor discussed the next step with my aunts: disconnecting the support systems. Something yelled inside me, "I need to speak to him!" but my mouth did not move. The only sounds in the room were the dyings beeping of the machines, the movement of family members and friends, and then... him. The first time I ever faced death was in that bed, with my father gasping, chasing his last breath, and the rest of us dying a bit with him. I ran outside the door and sat in the corridor with my back against the wall. I covered my ears with my hands and watched people running around me. I don't know how long I stayed there, but a stranger helped me stand up. "Everything will be all right soon," he said. 

My mother was not at the funeral, and in a way, neither was I. Everything seems like a nightmare now, so many years before. I remember meeting her in the North before returning to my home, work, and friends. She was angry and bitter because no one wanted her to attend the burial. I was sad and furious because the only thing I wanted was for my father to say he was sorry, and he never did.

I went back to my life. Throughout the years, I erased his memories and avoided her opinions as much as possible. I told myself that my allegiance was to the living, and my wishful thinking was to the dead. Still, many days, I don't even agree with myself. I'm stuck. I guess I will always be.