I love you

I look closely into the mirror. My expression was odd - it naturally sprung into shape, but tightened like a man-made screw. My chest and eyes burned. I sigh.

My father is a pathetic man. Its not just his appearance - its everything. You can always tell where he's recently been because he leaves behind this permeating, thickening, disgusting concoction of men's shampoo, microwaved chocolate croissants and alcohol. He always dresses like a beggar, some century-old shirt that sags and rips in some parody of minimalism. Yet he is never seen without the finest of liquor or the newest iPhone, the backdrop of all his calls some fancy condominium, all while bemoaning his exhausted resources.

But the most pathetic of all, is when he opens his mouth. All those with at least one ear and the misfortune of being in his vicinity, he complains to. Mainly about his 'imminent' death. He has been for decades.

'Oh, Alicia,' he would say, 'Soon, I will fly to the moon and I will watch over you.' - the moon means heaven - 'You won't forget me, will you?'. He asked me. That was 10 years ago. I was 7. Can you imagine a more miserable existence? To need the constant consoling, the constant sympathy of your 7 year old daughter - at least bemoan on social media first!

But the minimal experience outside my father's vapid lectures and self-mythologising meant my young self would cry out - 'Oh no!' and nod and smile and listen. Until one day - I didn’t.

When my father asked if I would miss him, I said yes. When he asked if I was lucky to have hi. As a father, I said 'yes, dad.' if he asked if I loved him, I would stretch my cheeks, pinch my eyes and manufacture love. 

'of course, I love you,' I lied. And I kept lying. I forced my arms around him in a poorly executed performance at the airport, when I bid him farewell (and secretly 'fuck off!') as I went to live with my mother in Australia. I lied every week when he called, from beginning when I pretended to care about his latest misfortune, and the end when I bid him farewell.

My life with him was not all unpleasant. I remember once going to the zoo. I still have the snow globe he gave me as a souvenir. It's a neat thing. It contains a little slip where you can insert photographs. Mine shows my father and I next to a panda.

But one day, when I visited my father in Malaysia, I walked in his room to see a portrait. It was my father holding another woman by the waist. My mother warned me - about my father's unfaithfulness and bigamy and the emotional devastation of their divorce. The pure whiteness of that wedding dress made me sick. It was confirmation. That bastard, that loathsome, selfish, pathetic piece of-

When I was 10, my father sold his car. I was overjoyed. The blasted thing was stuffy and reeked of polish. I remember enduring nausea and dizziness every time I was trapped in that metallic casket for longer than 5 minutes. However, I also remember enduringly, stuffy, smelly voyages on public buses with my grandmother, where tired, old adults and half-asleep students crowd inside like sardines. I knew that. I wasn't stupid. But I ignored all those implications - or rather, I willingly forgot. "This is a good thing" I lied to the bathroom mirror. So, I laughed. I mocked the car as it was driven away. I celebrated as my father covered his face with his hands.

When I returned from Malaysia, I decided. If my dislike- no- hatred of my father declared me as the world's worst daughter, I would wear my crown with pride and acceptance. I made my decision - no longer was I that back-less, naïve girl desperate for self-confirmation,. The notion that. My father's soul would rise upon death became comedic - no doubt it would drop to hell like a bowling ball. That snow globe, forgotten in the depths of my closet, had dried out. 

"This is a good thing" I would say.

And yet- I still lied to his face! Every time, after every call, as I watch the Facetime screen fade to black, I would see my reflection collapse like a worn-out robot, its wires and plastic barely strung together with the cheapest glue.

This continued until my father's visit to Australia. He didn’t like any of the food. He hated the weather. He complained the restaurants were too expensive, the beer too cheap. I couldn’t be less surprised. I wasn't. I shouldn't have. 

But one morning, I woke up to my father sitting at the dining table, cup of coffee in his left hand, newspaper on his right. My mother was cooking something - there was the smell of fried eggs and toast lazily wafting through the warm air. My parents were chatting about the news as sounds of some cartoon from the TV droned on in the background. The scene blurs. I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I've seen this all before, countless times, just on the other side of the cold glassy television screen. Domesticity. Normalcy. It's just a pipe dream, I told myself. It was unrealistic, knowing the history my parents had. But that brief glimpse awoke something in me. I saw it in the bathroom mirror as I washed my face - a ghostly naivete that made me sigh. It was a pathetic sight.

I can't hate my father. Perhaps it's that little girl with that plastic smile saying weughtless words, or its that wistful dream. When I speak to my father, I don't know if the words falling out blossomed naturally, or were man-manufactured that eloquently. 

But I know, one day, my father will leave for the moon, and I can see myself speaking over a wooden coffin about to be dropped into the ground.

I will say, "I love you." and no one would be the wiser not even myself.