21. Bury the Hatchet
My father died when I was seven years old, after a super bitter and contentious divorce from my mother. We never went to his funeral. To this day (I’m 36 now), I’ve never even visited my father’s grave, but that’s something I will fix soon, I hope. My siblings and I were told by my mother that we were abused and unwanted by my dad and his new wife, so just before he died he sent us away so he could enjoy his life without us and with his new wife and son, my stepbrother who was just a baby at the time. I bitterly hated my father for decades for doing this to us – cruelly sending us away to be impoverished and abused by my mother. My mom told us stories about how he would leave us outside during the winter if we did anything wrong and only fed us a small can of beans or a hot dog for all three of us kids while giving his other son all the best food and toys and stuff. I couldn’t remember anything, so I took her word for it. It was ironic in hindsight, she talked about how abusive he was and then she would turn around and leave us alone for months on end to fend for ourselves while she was vacationing with friends, or beat us with tree branches and pipes, or tell us we were her biggest regret in life. Thank God for my older sister, without her I’d be dead right now. Anyways.
Five years ago I was getting married, and wanted to bury the hatchet with my little brother. So I found him on Facebook and started talking with him, and we all reconciled. None of it was his fault, after all, he was only a baby.
When he flew out to see us, we started talking with him about our abusive jerk of a father, and he was sincerely confused. As it turns out, after the divorce, my mother (for lack of a better term) seduced a very expensive lawyer into suing my father for custody of us, essentially legally kidnapping us through the system. My father was a very poor southern man and couldn’t afford any high-powered attorneys. We found out that not only was everything we knew about my father a lie, but he fought tooth and nail until the day he died trying to get us back, or to at least see us again. We didn’t attend his funeral because (of course) they didn’t want my mother there. My paternal grandparents and my stepmother (who is a very kind and wonderful woman, by the way) tried to get us kids to attend it, but my mother wouldn’t let us. She told us my dad said in his will he didn’t want us there, which is absurd in hindsight. He died suddenly of a heart attack and had no time to write a will banning his kids from his funeral. Anyway, we found out my dad tried to send us mail, gifts, and voicemails… and none of it ever got to us because my mom intercepted and destroyed it all. My dad loved and missed us intensely, up until the moment he died. My stepmom kept court documents, photos, letters, home movies… all proof of his devotion to us in the hopes that one day we could reconcile.
Sometimes I think about it, like what must have been going through his head when he was dying. Did he think about us? Did he see me specifically? Did he feel like he failed by not getting us back and now he’ll never see us grow up? Did he die so young of a heart attack because of the stress my mom put him through by taking us away? If he knew the horrible things we thought about him, he would have been crushed. I spent so much time being manipulated into hating my father that I don’t even really miss him. It feels good to know my dad loved me, but it doesn’t change anything now. I can’t call him when I need advice. I can’t talk to him about marriage problems or repairing my car. It’s the same as it’s ever been. I’m just numb to it, and I think that’s the saddest thing.
I don’t know if there is a heaven or afterlife or whatever, but I hope somehow he knows I’m sorry for thinking that way about him and that I would give anything to be able to talk to him a little bit or feel what his hug is like.