“You’ll never amount to anything!” his bitter words still echoed in my ears.
Thirty years on, and they still haunted me – drove me, almost to addiction. I would be the supermom. I would pursue a career and raise talented children and serve a model husband, all while being a church leader and respected by all in my small community.
Except, that’s not how it had happened.
Despite my best intentions, my first husband abused me and I had had two further children, by different men. I was tired, chronically fatigued, single despite my best efforts, and unable to present myself to do a job. Sure, I might be fine the day I interviewed, but I could not guarantee being mentally fit every day of the week.
Being a single mother is bad enough, but being one that is failing by every social standard makes it even harder. At least, I could raise my children, but according to society, I failed at that too, unable to put my children in the best schools or offer them ballet and karate.
I was in danger of fulfilling my father’s parting words. Despite my best efforts to do things right, I was failing every challenge.
Everyone around me pushed me to do more, get more done, but with what energy? With what money? I was never one to pursue money, but one needed some to live. And more to avoid my children being chastised with the tarnish of poverty.
“Get a job!” rang out the words of a sign near the government office where I had to visit twice a year just to keep getting the little sustenance I was able to have.
“I can’t afford shrimp!” one jealous person commented when I bought some on government benefits.
“It’s her birthday,” I poised myself to say, but didn’t. People like that didn’t care, they just wanted to stop paying a small bill of their money every year to help support victims of circumstance.
“It’s socialism!” someone else complained. Yes, they were right, but I didn’t see anyone else coming out of the woodwork to help me with housing. Or anyone with a legitimate job that I could do at home that paid more than $1 an hour.
Not that I was lazy.
I spent hours upon hours giving out free help to friends online. I spent loads of time caring for people that I might never meet face-to-face. But I couldn’t make an income with that – so it didn’t count.
I was all for a free-market economy, but there needed to be some way of my work “counting” for something – a way to make a living caring for others – without needing an expensive 4-year degree from a school that I couldn’t afford, requiring a job I couldn’t hold in order to pay for it.
Yesterday, my father sent me a message that he needed to talk to me. I couldn’t deny that I wanted to talk with him, but at what cost? For him to censure me again? To tell me that I wasn’t the child he’d wanted to raise? That I was a failure? I didn’t need him to tell me that – I already knew.
Mother insisted though. Apparently, he wasn’t in good health these days. I did the math and realized he was in his early seventies. Maybe it was the last time to see him. The last chance for him to scold me about who I was.
I waited nervously in the coffee shop. I used my coping techniques to lessen my anxiety. I tapped my meridians, I breathed my favorite calming mantra. Still, my heart was racing and I could feel my blood pressure rising from the tension.
A tap on my shoulder.
I turned to see the man I could recognize as my father.
But rather than a condescending look in his eyes, there were tears streaming down his face.
Instinctively, I hugged him.
“I’m sorry, my daughter,” he breathed, his body shuddering with the sobs he held back.
“I’m sorry too, Dad,” I replied. “I’ve tried so hard to make you proud.”
“I am proud of you!” he replied, squeezing me to him. “I am so, so proud of what you have accomplished.”
“But I’ve been a complete failure – just like you predicted. No permanent relationship, no career...” I pulled away from him to look at him better. He looked tired, sad… guilty.
“You gave me grandchildren. No one else did.”
“But I can barely provide for them!”
“It hasn’t been easy for you,” he admitted. “But you have done the best you can with what you have. That’s all anyone can ever ask you to do.”
“But it’s never enough!”
“It’s enough for your children. And it’s enough for me.”
“You said...”
“Words in anger. I remember those words every day. I know how much they hurt you, haunted you… I’m sorry. Would you forgive me?” He was trembling. I knew I was now stronger than he was. I had missed so much in the years of separation. But now, rather than condemning, he had humbled himself.
Tears were now streaming down my face as well. I looked at him and nodded. “I forgive you,” I replied. “I thought this day would never come! I have missed having a father.”
“I have missed having a daughter – though it took losing a childhood friend last week to realize it. His final words to me were to reconcile before it was too late.”
“It’s not too late,” I said, kissing him. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, my daughter. I want to be a daily part of your life again – if you would allow it.”
I nodded through my tears. “It’s all I wanted.”
Based on a true story - one that hasn't resolved yet - still praying for a good conclusion. Don't let petty grudges sever your most important relationships!
Previous Apostrophe freewrites:
Week 1: Greta, Savai, and the Possessed Doll
Week 2: Mad World Reminisce (NSFW)
Week 3: Love: Take Two
Week 4: Letter From Beyond the Veil
New Weeks!
Week 2: One Stormy Lighthouse
Week 3: Sentence of Tharn & Ríosín - (The Prophesy of Freyja's Fire)
Image from Pixabay and supplied by Apostrophe.
Apostrophe is a writing pod on Whaleshares. This is a writing/photo prompt or contest from the pod. As usual, I crosspost on Steem, Whaleshares, WeKu and Hyperspace
Writing and artwork copyright myself 2005-2019 – all rights reserved.
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Asking @popcornexpress to bring popcorn!
Lori Svensen
author/designer at A'mara Books
photographer/graphic artist for Viking Visual
verified author on Goodreads
find me on Twitter
blogging on: Steem, Whaleshares, WeKu, Hyperspace
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