34. Then
Then: February 4th
I get to work right away on Mom’s gift. It’s a Tuesday, and her birthday is the following Friday. I don’t have a lot of time to pull this off, honestly, but I’m using every spare moment I can to make it happen. I’m not sure I have the same gifting gene that she has. Dad is okay at giving gifts, but I think he only gives because it’s expected of him.
Last year for Mom’s birthday, since it also happens to be on Valentine’s Day, we took her out to her favorite place to eat, Sally’s in the Park—it’s this cute little diner that sits inside a state park. Afterward, we spent the rest of the evening driving through the park, sightseeing all the wildlife that tends to come out at dusk.
Other than the gift I’m preparing, I don’t have a whole lot else planned for her yet. There’s an art show next weekend that I’m pretty sure she mentioned once, but now that I’m trying to remember, I might have the wrong date. I could try asking Dad, but I haven’t yet .
Dad doesn’t know what I’m working on. He thinks I’ve been busy studying for exams in my room. I do have a test coming up, but I’m not studying tonight. I jump at any little noise I hear throughout the house. Dad is most likely working in his study right now. He’s gone all day at work, and sometimes after dinner, I find him in his office answering emails.
I nearly fall out of my desk chair when someone knocks on my door. I quickly find something on my desk to cover up the evidence of what I’m doing. It’s my math textbook, and I jerk it open to a random page, grabbing a pencil from the holder so it looks like I’m in the middle of studying for something important. I am quite obviously not. I can only hope it’s not obvious to whoever it is on the other side of the door.
The knock comes again, and I realize I’m supposed to invite them in. A sigh escapes me and I say as pleasantly as I can manage, “Come in!”
It’s Dad. His hair is disheveled, and he looks older somehow. I don’t remember him having creases by his eyes and along his cheekbones. He’s older than Mom, but he’s aged this past year. Even though I’ve given him the official invitation, he doesn’t make any further movement into my room. The door is barely cracked, and he peeks in at me as though he’s afraid of what he might see in here. I may have forgotten to put my dirty clothes into the laundry hamper, but my bed is made like it usually is. Nothing else should be out of place, except for the textbook I’m not using.
“Hey, Sweet P, I’m sorry for intruding like this, I just…” he trails off and so does his gaze.
The glow of the hallway light behind him illuminates his face, and for a moment I don’t think I recognize this man standing before me. I blink, and it’s just my dad standing there. Hmm.
“Dad, you aren’t intruding. You’re allowed in here, you know,” I say. And I mean it. I don’t know when we set these hard, do-not-cross lines, but I’m sick of them. I wish they never existed in the first place .
He shuffles from one foot to the other, still not making any move closer to me. I close my textbook. It’s a risk, but one I’m willing to take. I invite him in this time.
“Dad, I want you to come in. Please,” I say. I can’t recall the last time I said those exact words to him. Maybe I never have. After all, Dads are supposed to tuck in their daughters each night and kiss them on their foreheads. It’s not something I miss, because I don’t remember it happening in the first place. But right now I want him in here.
He hesitates for a moment, but then slowly makes his way in. He’s wearing an old, checkered robe. If I remember correctly, I think it was a Christmas gift from Mom a few years ago during one of our crazy shopping escapades.
He leaves the door open a tiny sliver, like he’s trying to create an easy escape. Standing in my room, he looks awkward and uncomfortable, so I motion for him to sit. The only obvious place is my bed so he takes it.
“I was just coming here to ask if you had any ideas for Mom this year,” he says quietly. He’s always spoken to me at a hushed volume. Mom’s volume often changes frequency, but Dad’s rarely does. Like the highs and lows of a valley, Dad’s voice flows like a stream.
I swivel my chair so I’m facing him. I lean back slightly, folding my legs up in my chair. I take a moment to think before I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. I’m contemplating how much I want to give him. I’m still a bit angry with him for wanting to divorce Mom last year and having an affair. The two biggest elephants in the room we’ve never once talked about.
As though he can sense a shift in me, his grayish-blue eyes lock with mine. His smile fades and concern is written in the lines on his face. Worry, fear. I’ve seen that look before. The day I found out that he?—.
“What is it, P?” he asks.
Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run. Stay, stay, stay .
“Why did you want to leave Mom?” I force out. An ache spreads throughout my stomach as I feel it start to twist in knots. I shouldn’t be bringing this up. He came in here to talk about fun things like planning Mom’s thirty-fifth birthday. I forget how old Dad is, but I think they are close to ten years apart in age. They’d met in college her first year, fell in love, got pregnant with me, and the rest is history.
He folds his hands into his lap and stares down at them. For a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer me at all, after all the door is still open, pleading with him to walk back through it. It’s not too late to retreat.
It’s a feeling I know all too well. Run. All we’ve ever done is run. I want to be done running. It’s exhausting. I’d never really noticed it before, but I see it now etched in the tired lines on my dad’s face. What has he been running from? Maybe we aren’t that different after all.
“Your Mom and I got married young. I don’t know if you know the entire story, but believe it or not, I used to be a professor,” he starts.
My eyes go wide at this. I have not heard this version of the story. I’ve only heard it from Mom, and hers is quite different.
“Really?” I ask, “What kind of professor?”
“Guess.” He glances up at me, but he isn’t smiling.
“Finance?” I suggest.
He nods and looks back into his lap. “Yep. I was a professor at the college Mom attended. I won’t bore you with everything, but we fell in love her freshman year, and because she was a student at the time and showed up pregnant in my class…” he trails off.
The sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t go away, it gets worse. I’m not sure why he’s telling me all of this. Why does it matter now? Mom slept with her professor? No, she definitely left that part out.
“I had no choice but to resign.” He sighs sadly .
“But you did have a choice to marry her or leave her,” I quickly add, “right?”
He nods again. “Yes, that is true. We both wanted to get married. Although, it was a mutual agreement,” he says, acting as though it was some sort of contract and not my parents’ marriage.
“I’m not sure either of us planned for it to happen that way,” he says, hesitating.
I’m not sure how I feel about this, any of this. I’m trying hard not to judge something that happened so long ago, but I’m having a hard time with it. Mom slept with her college professor, and he was forced to resign. Whether or not they’d meant for that to happen, it did. Dad had been forced out of a profession he loved because of Mom. Yet, they still got married and stayed together all these years.
Did they only stay together because of me?
He continues before I can choke out all the questions that are starting to bubble up to the surface.
“We did things a bit out of order. Looking back, we both should have done it differently. I should have waited until she was no longer my student to pursue a relationship with her. We should have dated for a while and then talked about marriage. We sped up the timeline, our timeline. When we should have taken everything much slower than we did.
“Sweet P… I know this is all strange to hear coming from me. I know. I’m not sure if this is something I should be discussing with my daughter, but it isn’t right for either of us to keep anything hidden from you. And for that, I’m truly sorry.”
A tear escapes my eye and lands in my lap. I quickly swipe it away as another falls. I swipe that one away too. As hard as it is hearing this truth coming from my Dad, I’m glad it’s coming from him. We mostly dance around each other with small talk and side hugs. I never get much more from him, but all of this? I’d take this side of him any day. The ugly, the messy, the broken pieces he keeps locked away like the secrets in my mom’s journal .
I want this Dad.
“I want you to know that I love your mom. I truly do, so much. She’s not always an easy person to love, but I have never stopped loving your mother. Yes, I have made some mistakes. Terrible ones, as you already know. I was at a really low point, and I didn’t see how to fix our marriage at the time. It was wrong of me to do that kind of thing to her. I know that. I really do. And I have not gone back to that lady again…” His voice is starting to tremble.
That’s when more tears start to fall down my face like rain in a storm. I let them.
“Promise?” I squeak out.
“Wh-what is that?” he asks, glancing up at me with a look in his eyes like he’s forgotten who he’s been talking to—lost in his own world, like Mom often is. His stone eyes meet my copper ones. We hold onto each other's gazes. Neither of us wanting to let go of the other.
“Do you promise that it’s over with that other woman?” I whisper, forcing out the word ‘other’ as though I’ve said a dirty word. I don’t know if Mom can hear us, and I hope she’s not listening somewhere in the house.
He catches on and lowers his voice too. “Oh, yes. One thousand percent. I’m never doing that again.”
I’ve heard of men cheating on their wives before, that’s nothing new to me. I’m also aware that they will often do it repeatedly. But somehow, someway, I’m choosing to believe my dad. If he says he’s done, then he’s done. I believe him.
At least… I want to.
“Does Mom know?” I ask softly.
“No. She doesn’t. That’s not why I wanted the divorce, though.” he says.
“Oh.” is all I say.
“I’m not sure that I’m right for her.”
What does that mean? They’ve been married for almost seventeen years, how can he say that ?
He clears his throat. Mine suddenly feels parched too.
“But you said that you love her,” I say confused.
“Yes, and I do. Always will. But you know how she is, Sweet P. She’s a free bird, she beats her own drum, and doesn’t have a care in the world. That’s great—I love that about her. But sometimes I feel like she’s trapped, like I’m the one caging her in. People like her don’t want to be tied down to someone. And to be honest, I’m not sure her medication is working anymore,” he says sadly.
I jump at this. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with Mom?” I say, forgetting to keep my voice to a whisper.
“Nothing. I don’t know. Something’s off.” He doesn’t say more, doesn’t elaborate. But I want answers. No, I need them. What is he talking about?
“But she’s seemed fine these past couple of months. She hasn’t left in a while, and she’s laughing again. That’s a good sign, right?” My voice breaks again. I think back to some of the poems I’d read in her journal, and I quickly shove them back down.
“Yeah, that’s the thing. You never really know what version of her she’s going to be. I’m a little worried is all. She’s been unwell for a while, and I’ve tried everything I can think of. I just don’t know anymore.
“I didn’t come in here to burden you with all of this…” He waves a hand in the air, as if all of Mom’s problems are merely floating in the air and we can reach out and catch them. I wish that I could.
“I want to make this birthday extra special for her. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I realize that’s not going to fix anything. I know how much you love and care about your Mom, that's why I want you to help me plan this day. I want to do this together. With you, for her.” His voice breaks, and tears leak out of his wrinkly eyes. At this, the dam in me bursts open and rivers of tears flow down, down, down.
Just like I’d done with Mom a few nights ago, I make my way over to Dad and curl up in his lap like a little girl. He doesn’t back away or tell me I’m too big to be held. He wraps both arms snugly around me and holds me. I feel his warm tears soak the top of my head, and I don’t care. I haven’t shown this man enough love over the past couple of years, or maybe ever. But I want to start. I want more moments like this. Because even though it hurts in places, it’s something real. And real things I can hold onto.
“Okay,” I manage through a blur of tears. “I’m in.” And I mean it—one thousand percent.