Daddy Deadest

“I guess I will be the first to say it then… I’m glad he is dead!”, I proclaimed as I looked around the table.

Sour faced looked back at me, not shocked just annoyed. Everyone was thinking it, but it was in poor taste to say such a thing just twenty-four hours after your father’s untimely death.

Grandma’s hand trembled as she attempted to stab her food with the fork in her hand. It was not her fault that her son had grown up to be a horrid husband, deplorable father and all around dreadful human being. However, she bared that burden as though it had been hers to carry.

Grandpa stared straight ahead stoically, looking more so at the wall than at any person in particular, “It’s not right to speak about the deceased that way and I want to hear nothing of the sort.”

I looked directly across the table at my brother and rolled my eyes. He tried to hide the small grin on his face by shoving mashed potatoes in his mouth. We both glanced over at my mother, who was seated at the head of the table opposite of Grandpa. Her faced was blank as she sipped her wine, having not touched a bit of food on her plate.

We all knew that my father would drive himself into an early grave. He was reckless, relentless and cared only about himself. If you were to make a list of things that someone in their late fifties could possibly do to cause their own premature death, he would check every box. Drank excessively, smoked constantly, drove fast while also texting or talking on his phone and not wearing a seatbelt, drove while drinking. He would binge eat and gain excessive amounts of weight and then go on a crash diet and lose it all within a few weeks. He had very few friends and plenty of enemies, pissing of all the wrong people. He cheated on my mother throughout much of their thirty-year marriage and then left her at the age of fifty-five. He was an absent father and an abysmal son. When my parents divorced, my father’s own family took my mother’s side and invited her over for dinners and holidays rather than him. He was fine with this because it allowed him to slink off with his mistress and do what he always had done, which was whatever he wanted.

If you had asked me six months ago what would kill my father, I would have said his drinking habits.

Turns out it was a massive heart attack, which came as a shock to us all because who knew he had a heart beating inside his cold chest?

My aunt stood up and walked into the kitchen saying over her shoulder, “Does anyone want cake?”

“I do!”, my brother and I replied simultaneously.

My father had a substantial amount of money and to everyone’s surprise upon his death, he had not changed his will after the divorce two years ago. Therefore, all his monetary and physical possessions were now my mother’s. This was an ironic turn of fate, since it was just a couple of years ago that he was fighting her over all of it.

My aunt returned with three slices of cake, placed them on the table and then stood with her hands on her hips, “Well, tomorrow is the funeral and after that we can all get on with our lives. Let’s just make the best of the next twenty-four hours.”

Grandma started apologizing to everyone just as she had many times over the years. “I hate that this is how he will be remembered. I am so sorry. I did not raise him to act that way. I wish he had listened when we told him that he would regret living the way he did. I wish you two had better memories of your father. I did the best I could.” As always, everyone at the table reassured her that it was not her fault, and no one blames her.

Grandpa stood up and said, “He is gone now. We cannot let him continue to divide this family even after death. He did enough of that while he was alive. We have each other, just as we always have. We will get through tomorrow and then we will continue on together.” With that he picked up his empty plate and walked into the kitchen, making it clear that the conversation was over.

Everyone began clearing off the table, the clinking and clanging of dishes disguising the heavy silence.

After dinner I walked outside with my brother. “Have you noticed that not a single tear has fallen, not even from Grandma?”, I asked him.

“You know, I spent most of my life crying over him. Crying because he wasn’t there, crying because of something he said to me or something he didn’t say. I don’t think I have any tears left for him and something tells me that everyone else feels the same way.”, he replied.

We walked along in silence for a while and then he slipped his arm around my shoulder and whispered, “It’s okay to be glad he is dead. I am too.”

The next day we were all assembled at the funeral home waiting to walk into the service. There were a lot of people in attendance because my father was a businessman. Many people knew the man he showed on the surface, not many knew the man that his family knew.

As we walked down the center aisle to the front of the congregation, I glanced to my right and saw the mistress. I had assumed she would be there, but it was still a physical shock to see her. I just shook my head and prayed that my mom would not notice until after the service.

We made it to the grave site and once his casket was lowered into the ground, the family turned to accept condolences from those in attendance. I saw the mistress walking towards my mother. Frantically motioning to my brother, we stepped in her path to intercept her. “Don’t”, I said putting my hand up in a stopping motion, “she’s been through enough.”

With her hand shaking, she reached up and grabbed my hand. In a trembling voice, without a tear in her eyes, she said, “I’m glad he’s dead.”