My father was notorious for his tardiness. He visited us twice a year, once in the spring and again during the Christmas season—two occasions when we found ourselves waiting in eager anticipation. With the impatience of youth, I would press my nose against the frosted glass of our front door, scanning the street for his familiar car, only to be met with disappointment.
When he promised to arrive by noon, it was always well past 1 p.m. before his deep red Buick pulled into the driveway, a relic of his former life as a salesman in the ’80s. My mother often questioned my vigil at the door, her voice tight with frustration, but I remained steadfast. I held on to the hope that my father would someday be on time, despite the reality that settled in as I grew older.
Even now, nearly four decades later, I find it hard to relinquish that hope. Recently, my father reached out, asking to visit me in New York and spend a few nights with my family—my husband of 15 years and our two daughters. This would be the first time he would stay in my home. At 70, he’s a far cry from the man whose sweet Irish tenor once filled our home with melodies.
The last time we shared a roof was in 1979, shortly after I had sent him a woven basket I crafted in art class. It had been tucked away on top of his new wife’s refrigerator, collecting dust, a symbol of my feelings of rejection. As my siblings and I grew, we became more distant from him, sometimes even mistakenly calling him by our stepfather’s name. I could never completely abandon my father, though. I could no more disavow him than I could disown my own features, which mirrored his.
As time passed, memories of him began to fade. I held on to a few snapshots—him painting the house, sharing fried chicken at the park, or laughing as I ran through the sprinklers. After he left, he gifted us teddy bears, and I named mine after him, a way to keep him close at night.
As I observe my husband with our daughters, I wonder how my father could have walked away from such love. My mother often portrayed their marriage in a negative light, but I’ve come to see his side. He didn’t want the divorce; she did. In the societal context of the 1970s and ’80s, fathers were often portrayed as incompetent, absent figures in their children’s lives. My father didn’t vanish willingly. He was pushed away, a victim of circumstance.
Now, I wait for our upcoming visit, hoping he’ll share the weight of his experiences, perhaps even the reasons behind his late arrivals. I picture him driving alone, listening to sentimental songs, reflecting on his decisions.
When he comes, I’ll ask if he remembers our trip to Niagara Falls. I recall clinging to him as we leaned over the railing, feeling safe in his embrace. Yet, as life unfolded, I stumbled repeatedly, often without his support. At my wedding, my stepfather walked me down the aisle, and I caught my father’s pained expression from the pews. The moment was bittersweet; I wished he could have been the one beside me.
Despite everything, I still love him. As his visit approaches, I’ll prepare our guest room with care, hoping he feels welcome. I want him to know that he is embraced in our family, that love has endured, and that it’s never too late to reconnect.
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Summary:
My father’s chronic lateness shaped my childhood experiences and perceptions of him. As I prepare for his long-overdue visit, I reflect on our complicated relationship and the enduring love I hold for him. The upcoming reunion presents an opportunity for reconnection and healing, proving that it’s never too late to bridge the gaps in our lives.