You got an email describing your father’s new family for Christmas. No apologies; no regret for actions that pushed you to this place. No signs of the person called Dad.
It will be five years since you’ve seen him this July—and you’re a different person now. You like the woman you’ve become but your father wouldn’t know her.
He hasn’t seen your husband or dog. Has no idea what places you’ve called home or how your career has changed. Thinks you were wrong to be hurt. Willfully misses the point.
But he sings his new family’s praises over email.
It’s getting better now. For a while holidays made you feel alone. The kind of alone you wouldn’t wish on anyone. The absence of your father and brother a heavy weight. An alone that knows they are out there, exchanging gifts, laughing, having dinner—without you.
Christmas was the worst, then Thanksgiving. Father’s Day was next in the lineup of days to feel sad, its parade of online tributes like digital landmines under your thumb. Birthdays haven’t changed—the miracle of people who call has always been tempered by those who don’t.
“You must feel like you don’t have a family,” your therapist once said.
“Yes. Exactly. Thank you,” you replied, your calm exterior hiding interior screams.
Your father’s email listed people he lives with now—you had no idea—and used foreign words like step-sibling, claiming you would like each other a lot and really get along. But it was never their love you wanted.
You stopped reading his note halfway through. There was no remorse, no fear that he will miss another second of your precious life. No knowledge that shirking every responsibility affected anyone around him. No wondering how his only daughter was surviving a pandemic.
The message received was not written on the page: Look at the wonderful life I’ve made—without you.
How should the fatherless proceed on Father’s Day?
In five years without a father you have learned how to gather yourself. It took ages but you finally understand your strength—you can be deserted by those who signed up for your life and still make beautiful things. In many ways you realize you felt deserted all along. That became a wellspring for your deep and boundless care.
Most people in your life are not like you. You have learned how to love those who rest easily—carefree and nonchalant—in the kind of support you crave. You no longer wrinkle your brow when friends describe confounding things like calling their dad for advice. When one friend’s phone rang and the screen said “Dad,” they lied to protect you: I have been getting so much spam.
For a while you tried to get your father’s attention: I know people your age who want to be in my life. Why not you? Why don’t you care?
Later you stopped making attempts. Your parents made you the responsible one and this is the responsible choice. There are questions without answers in this life and delicately, tenderly you learn to live with them.
You are always open to reconciliation—but just this once you would like someone else to do the heavy lifting.
Often you wish you had family to lean on. But in its place you learned to recognize the gifts you have. Against all odds you are building a life on joy and love. There’s the dog who rests his chin on your neck when you’re sad and a husband who believes in you. Friends who stay present despite being miles away.
Your father may show up one day—bearing apologies, a dream within a dream—and you will say, with all the fractured, pent-up love saved for him:
Look at the wonderful life I’ve made.
You will avoid saying “without you.”
I hope I’ve made you proud.
Between you and me—
Full disclosure: I wrote this for Father’s Day thinking Father’s Day was this weekend. I realized late on Friday that Father’s Day is, in fact, next weekend, and it was too late to change course. But I trust whatever divine creative intelligence brought this into my orbit right here and right now. Put another way, maybe the extra cushion will give you enough time to share this with someone who needs it before the actual day arrives.
Living with quiet, unresolved struggle is an art. I welcome all who are managing confusing and painful situations to this space. I love you and you’re not alone.
ICYMI, last week’s essay has become a favorite. Recommended for anyone who loves the pleasure of friendship and connection. Thank you for the kind responses—and, as always, for being here. Take care.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you enjoy this newsletter, you can become a sponsor, click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!
"I welcome all who are managing confusing and painful situations to this space." What a gift. <3