It has been nearly a year since my dad died. I think that in many ways, I’m just now realizing that he is actually gone. I mean it’s not like we were close. I still can’t seem to actually feel the grief or sadness that I suppose I should. Instead, I’m just so angry.
I’m angry that he never knew that I wasn’t okay – that I’m not okay with what he did. Instead I once again played the perfect daughter and said “all is forgiven,” and I’m not there yet, and now I wonder if I ever will be. I’m angry at the words I never said and the questions he never answered. I’m angry that I can’t seem to let go, or let anyone in, because all my life I’ve been afraid of getting hurt. I’m angry that I’m scared and scarred by this. I don’t want to be. I want to put it all in a box and put it high on a shelf and never look at it again. I want it all to just go away. I wish that I could just forgive him, but the truth is he never gave me a reason to.
What kind of man walks away? Abandoning his wife and unborn child in a strange city. His explanation – simply, “I don’t know.” Well, daddy dearest, I don’t know doesn’t cut it.