Chapter Forty May 16
Chapter Forty
I’ve been sitting on my good news for a week, trying to process what it all means. It could mean everything changing (for better or for worse). It’s been nice having this little secret to myself for the past seven days. A reason to hope again. To dream. To get excited.
I wait until I know it’s just me and Dad at home. Mom’s brunching with Petra. She does this every Sunday when the weather is nice.
Dad’s sitting on the front porch, cup of coffee in hand. I sit next to him on the swing chair. We don’t talk, just sit side by side as birds chirp, taking turns at the feeder. The occasional car drives by, and clouds slowly move through the sky, easing the force of the sun.
“I got into Columbia,” I finally say. “I wasn’t sure if I would. Their acceptance rate is pretty low, but my SAT scores were good. I have you to thank for my above-average math results. If you hadn’t forced me into taking advanced courses the last few years, I would have bombed for sure.”
Dad nods, the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly. “I’m glad to know I didn’t completely ruin your life.”
“Is that sarcasm?” I ask, because I’m honestly not sure.
He lets out a long breath. “I haven’t been a very good father to you this last year. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to be the man you needed me to be.”
He’s right, and part of me wants to tell him he is, but the creases on his forehead and the frown lines around his mouth remind me that he’s just a flawed human, one with a bit more life experience than me.
Our eyes meet for a moment before his flit away.
His grip on his coffee cup tightens so much that the tips of his fingers turn white.
“I got wrapped up in my anger, my disappointment, like it was a disease I couldn’t see outside of,” he continues.
“Why was it my default to make my daughter suffer? What is so broken inside me that I would choose to behave this way to my own flesh and blood?” His voice cracks, and I watch his Adam’s apple move down his throat, slowly, like it’s caught on something.
“When my older brother passed away…” He pauses before clearing his throat.
“I was very young, but not so young that I didn’t remember what it was like to have him around.
The aftermath of his loss was so profound, so devastating, that things were never the same.
We were completely broken. That’s when my parents turned to religion. And so did I.”
My father runs a hand up and down his thigh, and I sit still, silently taking in every word like it’s catnip. I didn’t realize how much I missed hearing him speak to me like I was his best friend.
“Religion saved us,” he says. “We not only built a new, or maybe I should say different relationship with Christ, but we found community. It was the community that helped patch us back together and ultimately led to me meeting your mother. Most of the other children of immigrants at that time were trying to assimilate into Canadian culture, but once I found religion and community I embraced it fully. It felt safe, you know?” He looks at me, almost searching for approval, or maybe understanding.
“Within our tight-knit group, I knew I’d be surrounded by people who not only had the same beliefs I did but who also got me.
It gave me this feeling of control. And when I lost my parents, I clung even tighter to religion.
The fear inside me kept growing. I was so worried about who or what I’d lose next. ”
I’m almost certain that if I were to ask my dad he’d admit that everything—his anxiety, his past trauma, all of it—became heightened when Georgie announced she was pregnant.
Learning about me and John must have been his tipping point.
I’m not saying what he did or how he treated me was right, but sometimes I can almost see why he reacted the way he did.
The question is, how do we move through all the pain and hurt?
“I saw myself in you the first time I held you in my arms,” he tells me.
“We were both the second-born and youngest in our families, and even though a parent should probably never admit this, I felt closer to you when you were only a few seconds old than I’d felt to Georgie in all her three years.
The first child, you don’t know what you’re doing.
You just want to keep them alive and hope you don’t screw them up too much.
But when you were born, I was a more relaxed parent, in some ways.
” He laughs. “And I guess I saw you as this fresh canvas. My little buddy. Maybe I wanted you to fill the gap my brother had left behind. My brother was the big Beatles fan. He’s the one who introduced me to them.
It’s why you got the cool name,” he says proudly, elbowing my side slightly.
“I didn’t know that.” I wring my hands, taking in his words. They’re heavy but they’re honest.
“If my brother liked something, then I liked it ten times more.” A faint smile leaves his lips.
“Mom and Georgie had their own special bond, and you and I had ours. That’s why, when Georgie was pregnant with Paulie, I was upset, obviously, but I didn’t feel as betrayed as I did when I found out about you and…
” He stalls, as though saying his name is painful.
As if even admitting he exists is too much for him. “You and John.”
“I wasn’t trying to betray you.”
He nods. “I understand that. Now. But it took me a while to get here. I don’t know if my way of thinking can ever change when it comes to this subject.
I don’t believe you should be doing that with anyone before marriage.
Perhaps I am a little judgmental, considering some of the things I participated in growing up. ”
We both let out a small laugh.
“You’re allowed to have your own belief system,” I say, because it’s true. If he wants to believe the sky is yellow, it’s not for me to tell him he’s wrong. What’s wrong is him telling me that he sees a yellow sky and therefore so should I.
“If I could have gone on being the perfect daughter, I would have, but that girl doesn’t exist. If I’d tried to force it, I would only have ended up resenting you.
” I turn slightly toward him, still struggling to meet his eyes, so I look just over his shoulder, focusing on our neighbor’s mulberry tree instead.
“This last year has been really hard on me. I’ve lived with this constant pit in my stomach reminding me that I had disappointed you.
But also because my rock, the person I always turned to when life got hard, the person I ran to with my good news first, was no longer there for me. ”
A meaningful silence settles after I speak, the birds filling in the quiet between us. I try to find a way to say the next thing without upsetting him.
“We can’t go back. We just…can’t. All we can do is move forward.”
“And you want to move forward by going to school in New York?”
I nod. “For the first time in months, I’m excited about my future.
I’m hopeful. I know what you want for me is different from what I want for myself.
But I can’t be forced to be someone I’m not.
” I finally brave eye contact, and I’m surprised to see how much his face has softened since the start of our conversation.
“If I stay here, it may buy us a few more years together as father and daughter, but it would all be a facade, one that would eventually shatter into a million unfixable pieces. I’ve also come to learn over this last year that I still need you.
I still need a father. I need your guidance, faith, and support to help me become the person I’ve always dreamed of becoming.
Someone who, I hope, will make you proud one day. ”
My eyes burn, and while I’m able to control my quivering lips, tears roll down my face. The words I’ve said, I didn’t realize how true they were until this very moment. Sitting here next to my father, I can’t help but grieve the time we’ve spent apart.
In a move that takes me by surprise, Dad places his hand on top of mine.
“I’m sorry.” He says it so simply, but those two words are powerful.
He doesn’t say them often or easily. “You’re right.
I held you to a higher standard than Georgie.
An impossible one. I want you to be happy, and I want to be part of your life.
Lennon,” he says, turning slightly in his seat to face me, “I believe in you. I’ve always believed in you, and I think that’s part of why I held on so tight.
I know you are capable of big things. But doing big things means you’ll be taken away from me. ”
“And now?” I ask, hope sparking in my chest. “Do I have your blessing to chase after my dreams? To study in New York? Because,” I say, our eyes locked, “the truth is, you hold all the power here. I can’t go without your help.”
He nods slowly, swallowing again, his hand still on top of mine. “If you love someone, you need to set them free. And if they come back to you…” He looks down, his eyes red-rimmed. “If they come back to you, if you come back to us…” He sniffles, trying to fight back the tears.
“Does that mean I can accept this offer?” I ask, my breath hitched.
“Congratulations, habibti. You’re going to New York.”
I collapse into tears, and my father wraps his arms around me as I feel a deep, guttural cry released from within. I did it. He’s given me his blessing. I’m going to Columbia University.
Sitting up slightly and wiping away my tears, I manage to say, “Thank you.”
“Thank you for forgiving me,” Dad says. “You’ll visit, right?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion. I realize now I never confirmed if I’d come back, and yet he still gave me his blessing.
“All the time,” I promise.
We sit, with my dad’s arm around my shoulders, me resting my head on his.
After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat. “Did you love him?” he asks quietly.
“Yes. I do love him. And he loved me enough to set me free. Just like you.”
“Do you think one day you might go back to him?”
I stare ahead at a robin pecking through our garden in search of a worm. “I don’t know,” I say, letting out a heavy breath. “We don’t talk anymore. For all I know he’s in a serious relationship with someone else.”
“What is meant for you will come to you,” Dad says simply.
I really want to believe he’s right.
For me, it’s worth giving my parents another chance.
I’m not as religious as them and I don’t have the strong ties to my culture that they do.
Not yet, anyway. It’s something I might cultivate over time.
With experience. Not because someone told me I should.
But I do believe in the strength of family.
Maybe that’s the part of our religion and culture that has rubbed off on me.
Maybe all of this was growing pains. Maybe we’ll get past it. Maybe we won’t.
I’m choosing to forgive my parents. I don’t expect to forget. I’m not sure we can ever forget the things that alter our brain chemistries. I’ve tried.
So far it hasn’t worked when it comes to John. I’ve attempted to shift my thinking into learning how to live a full life without him. He’s not blood. He’s not family. He’s not even a friend.
But he just may be the other half of the moon.