In 2018, my father had severed all means of communication with me because of scheduling conflicts, unrealistic expectations, and privacy issues concerning my kids. After “My Father’s Desperate Need for Respect Destroyed Our Relationship,” a year of silence passed. The extent of his punishments and the strength of his convictions still didn’t prepare me for the next time I saw him, after which my father disowned me.
I had no inkling that our next meeting would break me.
The five states separating us aided his initial silent treatment. For a year, I endured being invisible. When he would briefly join my mom on FaceTime to speak with the kids, I’d struggle internally whether to say hello. Sometimes I’d manage to voice just that one word in an attempt to build a bridge. Many times I swallowed that seemingly simple “hello” because regardless of my efforts, I always received the same result: that unwavering look of disdain chiseled on his face, while he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. I was invisible, inaudible, nonexistent.
And yet I had no inkling that our next meeting would break me.
The setup
In autumn 2019, my husband, kids, and I drove to Florida for my brother’s wedding. Part of me had hoped that my father and I would be able to reconcile in person. However, after other family drama ensued, my father refused to attend the wedding; that story is not mine to tell.
On the last day of our week’s stay, my mom parked her car on the driveway of our rental house. I had expected her. I didn’t know my father would come with her.
He stayed outside, refusing to step foot inside our temporary home. My mom came inside and asked if she and my father could take my 18-month-old and preschooler for a walk. My eldest was so excited to see his grandpa again; David and I allowed it. My father may be a master of emotional abuse, but his ire was directed at me. The kids were safe, especially while they showered grandpa with adoration.
The request
At some point, my mother and I chatted in the living room. She offered to go ask my father if he would be willing to speak with me, because if I was then willing to go to him, we could try to fix this.
Of course she would ask this of me, ask me to dismiss my self-preservation, to humble myself and walk through that door. I had done it my whole life, the long walk down the hallway, my head hung low, my stomach churning, my knees quaking. We always had to be the ones to beg for his forgiveness, to grovel for peace, even when he was in the wrong.
We always had to be the ones to beg for his forgiveness, to grovel for peace, even when he was in the wrong.
I couldn’t do it anymore. Decades of his temper, his distance, his cold glare, and his ability to dismiss my opinions, to silence my voice, and to make me feel insignificant had cracked me so much that I had become fragile. Subjecting myself to his insurmountable will would shatter me.
I tried explaining this to my mother, how I desperately needed to protect myself. I thought she heard me. But then she still asked him. And he said yes. They had backed me into a corner: If I didn’t go to him, my parents would have blamed me as the inflexible problem. I wasn’t allowed to protect myself.
While the kids distracted my husband, “Look, Dadda! Grandpa gave us twenty dollars!” my feet moved on their own accord, slipping on my sandals and leading me outside. My body had no choice but to follow. My mind floated above me. I was outside myself, like in a dream. And so, I wound up on that driveway, just my father and me.
Broken
He looked sad, lonely, defeated, with his back hunched over as if the world had come bearing down on him. I wanted to hug him, but I pictured him pushing me away. The condensed silence separated us while he waited for me to speak first. So I took a deep breath, steadied my feet, and said, “I will always love you, Dad.”
And then my father, who hadn’t spoken a single word to me in over a year, replied, “Love isn’t enough.”
I took a step back. My cheek started throbbing and my head spinning, as if he had actually slapped me across the face. I couldn’t process how a parent could say that to their child.
Ever the teacher, he then proceeded to lecture me about how his mother never smoked in front of her father because he believed women who smoked were whores. In short, his mother explained that children should not try to change their parents.
My mind floated further away, observing this surreal conversation like a spectator watching a reality show. I tried to wrangle myself back together again, to process what was happening. Again I took a breath and attempted to understand him. Maybe if I could sum up his feelings, let him know I heard him, he could do the same. “So you’re saying that when we asked you to make the kids’ photos private, that was us trying to change you?”
He nodded. He knew I heard him. My turn.
“Even though we asked you to do that out of concern for our kids’ safety?”
“Bull shit!” he spat. The strength of his conviction knocked me backward. He then chastised me for even bothering to put our kids in the car, that they have more chance being in a car accident than being exploited online.
A year later he was still so desperate to cling to his views than make amends.
I don’t remember exactly what happened next. I was too busy pondering in slow motion why I allowed myself to be in this situation, why a year later he was still so desperate to cling to his views than make amends, why I had walked out that door just to let him tear me down again.
And I couldn’t find the words, the brain function, to explain that while people don’t stop living their lives, they do take safety precautions—like seatbelts, high chairs, bassinets, knee pads, and privacy settings—to reduce the chances of negative outcomes. But logic didn’t exist on that driveway. Only raw emotion.
Facing futility
Even if I could find my voice again, I finally realized that nothing I ever say will change his mind. I will never convince him to consider my point of view. My thoughts, opinions, experience, values, and concerns mean nothing to him. They hold no validation. The sheer futility of the situation made me cry, blurring his face out of view.
I managed to shout that respect is a two-way street—a desperate last cry that even though I was his child, I still deserve to be treated with an equal amount of human decency, for my thoughts and opinions to matter.
I will never convince him to consider my point of view.
“No it’s not,” he stubbornly stated, as if being my parent exempts him from having to hear me.
I ran, desperate to get away from him, from that invincible pride. The last thing I screamed was “You don’t deserve it [respect] anymore.”
I scrambled inside and ran into my husband’s arms as I cried and hyperventilated in front of my children. My son’s innocent confusion echoed in my head, “But Momma, it’s just Grandpa!”
My husband led me to our room, where I collapsed in a corner. I couldn’t stop crying and shaking. I spoke with that creepy high-pitched manic tone again as I tried to tell David what had happened. My mom came to me, trying to reassure me, “But Erin, he says he didn’t yell.”
I cried harder. David made my mother leave while I lay on the floor, broken.
Disowned and erased
Our two-day drive home provided me with an excessive amount of time to ruminate and fervidly text my mom, as if the harder and faster I typed, the more likely she would come to understand me.
But they didn’t understand. I had failed them. I was the one who had shouted. I had disrespected my father yet again. I was wrong to try to negotiate a mutual apology. I was wrong to draw boundaries, to demand that he consider my point of view. And so rather than letting it go and agreeing to disagree, my father disowned me. To him, our relationship isn't worth fighting for.
He not only threw me away but also erased my childhood.
He hasn’t spoken a word to me in years. If I happen to appear on screen when the kids video call their grandparents, my father walks away. If I am able to find the courage and hope to say hi, to show that I would still like to find a way to move forward, I am met with silence.
My birthday cards have only one signature.
He can’t even bring himself to exchange season’s greetings with me. When he showed the kids his extensive Christmas display that flows throughout each room of his home, I noticed my brother’s childhood stocking hung with care. Mine lay forgotten in a box, or worse. He not only threw me away but also erased my childhood.
These petty jabs still hurt. Being invisible hurts.
Torn in two
I’m grateful my mom and I keep working on our relationship. Sometimes she understands me; other times she defaults to her survival instincts and defends her husband. It must be awful, feeling torn in two.
I have also established strict boundaries with my mother. She realizes now that discussions about my father retraumatize me. She no longer mentions ways I can fix things my father, because she knows my chest tightens, my breathing quickens, my heart rate accelerates, panic ensues.
Sometimes, I resent that she enables my father’s behavior, that she chooses to stay with him and subject her kids to emotional abuse. But I also understand that she has endured years of conditioning. So when she feels frustrated with her situation, with being caught in the middle, and she resumes blaming me, I try to keep an observational mind frame rather than getting pulled in emotionally. Because when emotions rule, reason and logic and boundaries dissolve quickly.
Letting go
Despite the trauma I’ve suffered, I can’t help but pity my father: He would rather die believing himself right, believing he’s the victim, than reflect on his actions and take steps to mend our relationship. On that driveway, I realized that my father is incapable of seeing me as a unique individual, as anything other than the child I was 30 years ago. It’s inconceivable to him that he should get to know the woman I have become and find value in my experiences and thoughts.
I will continue to mourn that loss for the both of us.
I focus on trying to break the cycle of emotional abuse by listening to my kids, validating their feelings, and making sure they know I will always listen to them and love them.
But instead of dwelling on the void my father left behind, I focus on my two boys and my kind, supportive, patient husband with whom I can talk about everything, who sees me in my entirety, and who loves me unconditionally.
I focus on trying to break the cycle of emotional abuse by listening to my kids, validating their feelings, and making sure they know I will always listen to them and love them no matter what they think or how they feel. And I look forward to getting to know the unique individuals they will grow into over the years.
And now that I have finally given voice to this immense pain, I let it go.
Featured photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash.
Read the first part of this story in "My Father's Desperate Need for Respect Destroyed Our Relationship."
To my readers:
Hi, friends. If reading this story resurfaced some difficult feelings for you, reach out of me in the comments or via my Contact page. I hear you. I see you. You and your story matter too. You are not alone.
