The Man They Call My Father

Just to be clear, my dad passed away over twenty-five years ago. He had been my dad since I was two years old. He was loved and missed and was gone too soon, leaving a big empty space that was impossible to fill. However, the man they called my father only passed away a few weeks ago. He didn’t deserve to outlive my dad but outlive him he did. At the age of 95, he had the privilege of outliving many people who should have been here longer. As they say, life isn’t fair.

This man and my mother separated 15 days after I was born. He was seeing another woman at the time, a woman ten years younger who was naive and not mature enough to understand what she was getting into. A women who would become his second wife and who he would leave forty years later for another woman. Then would ask to move back in with her when it didn’t work out. Luckily she had become wiser over time.

Before I was born, the man they called my father would ask my mother to leave with my older brothers so he could bring another woman home. He made my mother feel small and insignificant. Then he offered to buy her a car if she left him one of my brothers before she moved away two months after their separation. What kind of a person does that?

This man and my mother opened a drug store in the village of Baddeck, and my mother worked very hard to guarantee it was successful. When the store was eventually sold my mother, remarried to my dad by that time, signed the papers but received nothing from this man as compensation. This man was able to quit work, buy and fly planes, buy and sail boats. He spent a good deal of time overseeing his financial investments. Money I was glad I didn’t have to have anything to do with. I didn’t want to feel any pressure to pretend to like that man they called my father.

This man never made an effort to be my father. All he could take credit for was planting the seed. Lucky for me, I look like my mother so I don’t have to see him in my mirror. Mostly he was a distant name that made little or no impact on my life, except for a few summers when I visited him with my brothers. Still there was no effort to be a father or include me in the things that he did with the boys. I wasn’t taught to sail the prams or ride the mini bike. The expectation was that I was to act like a lady. He had a tendency to be chauvinistic. I often wandered the streets of the village, dropping change into to the pay phone, trying to call my friends at home.

This man liked to ridicule and berate those close to him. He would refuse to talk to family members for long periods of time. And I mean very long periods of time. He could be cruel and mean, using a condescending silky voice that made you (or at least me) want to scream. Yet, this man was respected, admired and liked, even loved, by those in the community. He was a narcissistic chameleon.

He ridiculed my mother and his second wife. He ridiculed his own mother. He ridiculed my oldest brother, who was sensitive and often bullied. He ridiculed his daughter from his second marriage, eroding her ability to cope. On a visit I made in the summer of 1983, he proceeded to ridicule and berate me in front of dinner guests because he didn’t like an education decision I made. And don’t think he helped with my education, he did not. I left his house and didn’t return for many, many years. I swore he would never have the chance to do that to me again. And in the long run to anyone I loved. I never gave him the opportunity to know or ridicule my son.

The man they called my father became one of my dating benchmarks. If a guy even remotely reminded me of him, I hightailed it in the opposite direction. This man never attended my wedding, although he was invited, which was fine by me because my dad proudly gave me away. He never attended my oldest brother’s celebration of life, yet managed to attend a ceremony for a dog who helped find him when he got lost skiing in the woods.

People, after reading his obituary, sent text messages of condolences for the loss of my dad. Not my dad, I replied. Not even a father in my books. I wished they would stop assuming that he was.

At his celebration of life, there were the same condolences, but it was a casual affair and I was able to slip into anonymity for the most part. I didn’t want to be associated with the man they called my father. I attended for my stepmother, who was stuck with the mess of dealing with the death of a man who left her twenty years ago.

My family is messy and complicated. There is history that we will never forget, but one thing I believe we can all agree on is that we are glad this particular chapter is now over. As for me, I feel nothing. It is impossible to feel anything for a narcissistic, chauvinistic, egotistical asshole. An assessment derived from years of observations. Not even revulsion because he is not worth the energy. Do I feel guilty for my lack of feeling? Not in the least. But I will tell you that when my dad passed away twenty-five years ago, I cried a river. 

Thank you for reading.

Photo:  Oliver Guillard, Unsplash

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