Unheard. Invalidated. That’s how I feel whenever I see my father, whose desperate need for respect destroyed our relationship.
He stopped talking to me in September 2018. Every year that falls away causes the void to grow wider. Deeper. The void of being not only thrown away but also erased, because I stood up for myself, for my family. I had dared to create boundaries that challenged his desperate need to be revered, obeyed. I still struggle with understanding why I don’t matter to him, why I was disposable.
In many ways, I feel sorry for him too. He never learned how to have an honest conversation, how to take turns sharing and listening to each others’ pain and insecurities without judgement or attacking. Allowing ourselves to be open and vulnerable takes courage. Yet he never learned how to reflect on his actions, how to learn from his mistakes, to admit his wrongs, and to change his behavior to improve himself and strengthen his relationships with others. And he never learned how to apologize.
Yet being stuck in the role of victim isolates him over and over again.
For my father to acknowledge his faults, he would shatter the image of himself that he’s clung to since before I was born. Yet being stuck in the role of victim isolates him over and over again, and he’s not happy. Not truly.
Newborn boredom
The ground upon which we stood began to break a couple weeks after I gave birth to my second child. My mother flew up and stayed a week. Then my father joined us for a few days before they would fly back home. There were no major disputes, no earth-shattering confrontations. But the tone of the visit hinted that our relationship was approaching that proverbial fork in the road.
In short, my parents complained about being bored. Now, as frustrated as I feel about that, I’ll pause a moment and play devil’s advocate. As my mother told me before, my parents already “did their time” waking up in the wee hours of the morning, going to work, and keeping the house immaculate all while raising my brother and me.
Aside from the tinge of sorrow that she compared my childhood to a jail sentence, I understand the challenges of that phase of life. Perhaps I shouldn’t have hoped that they would help with meal preparation and basic house cleaning. They did hold the baby often and shower my preschooler with attention and affection. They did change several diapers and thus spare me from limping across the house with my broken toe, which surprisingly made walking far more painful than my second c-section.
And yet, my retired parents were bored—because they and their grandchildren have completely different schedules.
And yet, my retired parents were bored because they and their grandchildren have completely different schedules. By the time my parents woke up and were ready to start the day, my preschooler desperately needed his glorious three-hour nap. Even though my parents didn’t like being cooped up inside the house all day, even though they flew up to see their grandchildren, even though they had our blessing to take our preschooler out and about, they did not want wake up earlier. They chose to give up those options—when their grandson needed their attention the most.
That visit was the first time I consciously felt invisible to them. They were bored, while my sleep-deprived husband and I were up throughout the night with a newborn and then had to be ready to go at 7 a.m. to tend to the needs of our preschooler.
But I had been the one to offend my father with our boring phase of life. Years later, my husband, David, pointed out to me that only once out of seven visits did my father hug me goodbye. That visit wasn’t it.
Longing for family
The second situation revolved around my newest baby’s baptism, which meant I'd be able to host a family reunion. My whole family, which to me includes my aunts and uncle and cousins, hadn’t been together in eight years. Since then, we had six new little ones among us. I couldn't wait to gather us together again.
During my childhood, I saw my cousins for every birthday party, Easter, and Thanksgiving. I was particularly close with one cousin, who was the sister I never had: Those precious childhood memories include many sleepovers, giggling madly under the covers of our twin-sized beds, an impromptu haircut where I severed an entire pigtail, and years later girls-only summer vacations. When I think of my childhood, I picture us running around my aunt’s cul-de-sac, my cousin and I playing Barbies for hours, the boy cousins and I reading X-men comics. I am so grateful we grew up together.
My kids don’t have that option.
I had no concept how lonely I would feel once I started my own family.
We are alone here in Maryland. Even though I had spent six years trying to move here post-graduation from American University, I thought that when I finally achieved my goals, I’d be able to visit my family back in New Jersey. But the same summer I quit my job and moved to Maryland, my parents sold my childhood home and, with my brother, moved to Florida.
I had no concept how lonely I would feel once I started my own family. David and I have no relatives nearby who can help us out, who can watch the kids for a few hours so David and I can have a night out. No cousins nearby to attend birthday parties.
Daring to create memories
When I began planning my baby’s baptism, I was beyond excited that I would have my whole family together and in my home. We were going to be reunited, under my roof, in my world. After a hectic Saturday with the baptism and afterparty, I envisioned a relaxing Sunday: The estranged cousins playing in my yard, the inflatable pool set up, an ice cream bar, and the adults chatting and catching up. My children and I would be surrounded by my family—a snapshot of what I had growing up.
For a moment, I thought they would realize the importance of that weekend to me, realize the enormity of my longing for them.
My parents had other plans. They wanted a short visit—because they were bored last time. They planned to fly home Sunday evening. When they told me, I couldn’t stop the onslaught of emotion. My chest heaved. My hands shook the FaceTime camera. My tears blotted out not only my parents’ dumbfounded faces but also my vision of that leisurely backyard reunion.
For a moment, I thought they would realize the importance of that weekend to me, realize the enormity of my longing for them. Instead, my feelings irritated them. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting,” they said. They could not understand the pain I felt. Despite my visceral emotional response, I was invisible.
A few days later, my mom assured me that she understood, that they would fly home Monday. I sighed with relief that they heard me, that they cared. And then my mom forwarded me a copy of their flight confirmation email. They were scheduled to depart Sunday early afternoon. And this time, their plans were set in stone. They left no room for negotiation, no room for my feelings. I just sat there and cried, alone.
The privacy dispute
A month before the baptism, I realized that all of my parents' posts on Facebook were public. My sons’ faces, their names, their ages, their general location—all visible to the world. As a professional editor, I have worked on publications that covered topics such as human trafficking, drug-endangered children, exploited kids, and more. I also struggle with anxiety. When I saw my innocent, naive, and vulnerable babies displayed so publicly, I could feel the panic rising.
David and I respectfully asked my parents to make the kids’ photos private. My father responded by deleting every picture and mention of them since birth. He chose to erase them, rather than change a setting.
When I tried to reason with him, to understand why he was mad, he told me to leave him alone and stop harassing him. He then blocked me on his phone and via social media, shutting down all means of communication, all means of reconciliation.
An unthinkable betrayal
After the Facebook incident, I learned that my father would come to the baptism only under specific conditions: He would not come into our home, would stay at a hotel, would not speak to me, and would not be in any photos.
I wish I could say this extreme response was surprising. Unfortunately, I can recall several events at which my father wasn’t on speaking terms with one or more family members, including my Sweet Sixteen birthday party, my brother’s high school graduation, my thesis reading, and at least one Christmas. Throughout my childhood, I grew accustomed to my father’s temper, the silent treatments, the withdrawal of love.
But after more than thirty years, I'd had enough. I could not subject my children to the same. I did not want to teach them that stipulations and the cold shoulder are acceptable ways to treat people.
Throughout my childhood, I grew accustomed to my father’s temper, the silent treatments, the withdrawal of love. I could not subject my children to the same.
David and I decided that family events should be joyous, that if my father wasn’t capable of putting our differences aside and celebrating our baby, then perhaps the baptism wouldn’t be the right time for him to visit next.
My mom, who had shielded my brother and me as much as possible from my father, warned me that if David sent my father that message, then my relationship with my father would be over. While I pondered this with David, my mom called me back, crying hysterically, while my father screamed in the background, “I’m done with that f-ing b*tch and her f-ing family.”
I immediately hung up the phone. I don't recall screaming, but somehow my husband knew I needed him. He came running downstairs in a panic and pulled me into a tight hug. I think I was shaking. I know I was crying.
But I couldn't speak. I was too busy processing what I knew must have happened, what my mother would later confirm: She had made the decision for us. She stole my voice and butchered our message. She bluntly told my father we didn’t want him at the baptism. She gave him reason to hate me forever.
When I finally spoke, an oddly high-pitched cry escaped me. I could only repeat one sentence over and over again, my brain stuck in autopilot, my voice so much higher than normal I couldn’t be sure it belonged to me: “They’re never going to change. They’re never going to change. They’re never going to change.”
Partial reunion & partial reconciliation
Months of silence passed.
My aunts and uncles, cousins, in-laws, and friends attended the October baptism. After the New Year, my mom and I managed to reconcile. We’ve always had our ups and downs, but I knew now I had to be more careful. One of the hardest lessons I learned in my adulthood is that my mom is first and foremost my father’s wife: She will inevitably do what she can to keep the peace in her home. I can’t entirely fault her for that. But mother-daughter confidentiality no longer exists.
With all communication severed, my father had rendered my pain, my thoughts, my perspective voiceless.
David and I try to stay open-minded, hopeful. If my father is ever willing to talk, to listen, to make amends, our door is open. But that hope rips me in two, because I highly doubt he’ll ever try, he who threw away all the photos of me in their home, including him walking me down the aisle. And my mom, fearing my dad’s retaliation, laments that she most likely will never come up to visit me and her grandsons again.
With all communication severed, my father had rendered my pain, my thoughts, my perspective voiceless.
I had no idea the worst was yet to come.
Featured photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash.
Read about the confrontation that broke me and how I'm trying to let that pain go in the second part of this story, "Releasing the Pain After My Father Disowned Me."
To my readers:
When have you felt that someone else didn't see or care about your pain, your thoughts, your perspective? Is that person still in your life? Are you still fighting to be heard? How did you resolve the situation?
I hear you, my friends. We are not alone. Our voices matter. You matter. Please share your stories in the comments below.
