Ex-Father
I.I.II
EX-FATHER
My father was never a man of many words. Unless those words were “no” or “you had that coming”. For the better part of my life, he could have been the family butler I was forced to hang out with on occasion, but that was about it.
He’d come home late from work, pick a fight with my mother, hear about the mischief I’d pulled that day, and then discipline me. Truth be told, I was quite impish as a child. Okay, that’s an understatement. I was Satan reincarnate. That said, my mum could handle that mischievousness. She’d sit me down and talk to me, and if that didn’t work, she’d have other tricks up her sleeve. Like screaming at the top of her lungs. Or withholding sweets. Or… I remember she’d sometimes tie me down to my car seat with her pink housecoat belt so I’d stay still for just one minute (is that even legal? Sorry, Mum, if you’re reading this from jail!) only for me to stand up with the entire thing strapped to my back. Coolest ninja turtle ever.
But my dad? Completely different story. If I was Satan… well, he was the Jesus to my Satan. I still remember all the fun and chaos going on at home until we’d hear those footsteps. His footsteps. Then the door would open and time stopped. Everything went quiet. Almost too quiet. It also got chilly. Did I mention it got chilly? All the hope and happy sucked right out of you. Then the Jesus-dementor hybrid walked in and the despair hit you. As did a flat palm – or, on a particularly bad day, the buckle of a belt. All the laughs and giggles and joy – POOF! Gone.
As mischievous as I was, I always thought a bit of leniency from his side would’ve gone a long way in improving our relationship. But there was no leniency, no understanding, no compromise. And so, he remained more of an antagonist in my story. I know I’m being dramatic, but really and truly, that’s mostly what I remember. I hated him throughout most of my childhood and adolescence, and I know most kids go through a phase like that.
Only mine lasted a little longer, and I think it’s because some part of me always sensed he reciprocated my loathing. I felt like not only was I the wrong son, but the unwanted one. As if his family had been exactly what he’d always envisioned before I came into the picture. Maybe that’s why my older brother was the favourite. He had had it all before I showed up: the perfect wife, the perfect kid, the perfect family. And then his condom broke and I ruined everything. The audacity!
It was when I found an old family photo album that I started having all these intrusive thoughts. A pre-me family album. I couldn’t help but notice how much happier he looked in those photos. I’d never seen him smile like that in my presence. Hell, I could count the number of times I’d seen him smile on one hand. But in those photos? He was smiling in all of them. That’s when the gnawing feeling in my stomach started. “I ruined him,” I thought. I could almost empathise with him. Imagine having a nearly perfect life only for it to be snatched away by some whiny little punk like me. I’d resent me too, wouldn’t I? To have to sacrifice such a good life for someone who might fall short of your expectations. I don’t think I could ever do something like that myself.
I was devastated by my own thought process. Mostly because I could see where he was (probably) coming from. Also cause I could finally understand the gravity of my existence. Maybe that’s why my mother had turned bitter too. Maybe that’s why my brother sought the company of his friends instead of mine. I was the common denominator, the root of all my family’s evils. The rest of them were a happy lot – I was the miserable one questioning everything around him and causing chaos all the time.
Or at least that’s how I felt back then. I know I totally sound like a snivelling, spoiled, ungrateful brat. But that’s how I truly felt. In hindsight, I can easily make allowances for his emotional shortcomings and brush it all off. Now that I’m older and perhaps somewhat wiser, I have more perspective on the matter.
To quote one of my best friends, “Parenting doesn’t come with a guidebook”. As kids, we think our parents are superhuman. Then we grow up, reach their age, and realise we’re still kids ourselves. No one teaches you how to be an adult or a parent. It’s trial and error. And given all the hardships we all have to deal with, I should count my blessings and appreciate the fact that regardless of our relationship, I always had food on my plate and a roof over my head – something that’s already more than most can hope for.
Contrary to what House says, I firmly believe that people can change. Flash-forward to that fateful day when I had my awakening or whatever you want to call it. My father and I were on the roof watering his plants – something he’d usually force me into doing.
I remember standing next to him, waiting for a bucket of water to fill up, when suddenly I started verbalising words I had no intention of ever saying. Words that came out without any thought or effort. I might be impulsive and carefree, but when it came to speaking to my father, I always planned every syllable. But this time was different. Words just tumbled out. “Dad, I want to become a doctor.” Silence. More silence. A bit more silence.
The bucket was now full and overflowing, spilling water all over. “Don’t you need to study different subjects for that?”. I knew what he was alluding to. At the time, I was studying to become a lawyer or a teacher or something – this would mean I’d have to start again from scratch. The idea of having him pay for private lessons was one I never even entertained either. Having to accept help from someone you don’t like is not unlike a kick in the nuts. And out of all the deadly sins, pride has always been my hamartia.
But it didn’t matter. He was always stingy with me. He’d save a dime whenever he could. I didn’t even need to brace myself for the obvious “no” that was coming. I could practically see him saying, “Heh, good luck trying, son” with that Mephistophelian grin of his. Only this would never actually happen because he wasn’t the grinning type. But as is customary in my life, the universe loves to prove me wrong. So of course, he uttered a simple, “If that’s what you want…” and just like that, he was on board.
I’m not exactly sure of the sequence that followed. My eyes might’ve teared up as I stuttered a “Thank you” in disbelief. I might’ve fallen to my knees sobbing. Or maybe I called my agent saying I finally got the gig? But I never had an agent and my knees are far too weak to drop on them dramatically, so that probably didn’t happen. I could hardly believe what I’d heard. A lifetime of what I considered deprivation had me so ready for yet another “no”.
Turns out that was all my own personal BS. Suddenly everything made sense. All the “no”s?, all the discipline? It wasn’t him being a horrible, stingy father. It was him teaching me. Teaching me to prioritise. Teaching me that there’s a massive difference between wanting and needing something. And in all those years, this was the first thing I truly needed from him. Apart from the other crap, you know – like food on my plate and a roof over my head.
Over the next couple of years, he paid for all my tuition and everything my new venture required. I insisted it was only a loan and that I’d pay him back once I started working, and he’d agree just to humour me.
He genuinely showed interest in my studies and would ask about my progress. Like most parents do, I guess – though for me, this was new. Nobody in my family had ever given a crap about my education. They always took it for granted I’d do well in my exams, get into university, graduate, and become one thing or another. I’d grown used to their indifference. I’d grown used to studying next to my brother as he played video games on maximum volume. Oh, and the symphony of my two dogs barking their lungs out while my mother screeched in harmony trying to shut them up. Good times!
It was me doing the best I could despite them. And suddenly, after all those years, I had someone who actually cared. Someone on my side. Someone rooting for me. And I felt that. It made me realise that no matter how much I tried to act aloof, deep down I’d always been looking for his acknowledgement. And I finally had it. I was working my arse off and he could see it. He saw I was putting his money to good use. That’s how we started growing closer and closer. He remained a man of few words, but eventually we came to a place where we’d sit next to each other in quiet, appreciating each other’s company…
And that is when I started remembering that we did actually share a few happy childhood memories. Like when we’d go on walks or when he’d take me snorkelling. Or when he’d use his company printer to print out pictures of animals for me to stick into a notebook back when we didn’t even have a computer at home. Or when I fell off a ledge and he found me semi-conscious on the ground with my forehead split wide open. I remember how he carried me to the doctor, running – crying, I think. “He really does care,” I remember thinking as he held me in his big arms like a damsel in distress. He wasn’t all too bad, you know…
Okay, now I want you to close your eyes and imagine flickering red lights and an alarm blaring. “Warning! Warning! Cheesy! Cloying! Cliché! Warning! Warning!”
Ready? I apologise in advance for this… It was through finding myself that I found him. And it was because of all the things he did for me that he stopped being my father and became my… (I’m sorry) dad. I know, right? Vomit-inducing. You have my full support if you want to stop reading after having had to endure all of that. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do better from now on.