I was typing away at my computer when my phone rang. It was my oldest sister. I hesitated. For most people, receiving a call from family is routine, but not for me. Although we all live in the same city, it had been over two months since I last saw or spoke to any of them.
We aren’t close. I usually reach out only during family gatherings, so when I receive a call from any of them, anxiety creeps in.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Hi,” she said, followed by a long pause. “I was wondering if you knew Dad is in the hospital. He has COVID-19.”
“No, I didn’t know,” I replied.
“He was admitted today,” she continued, adding that both our younger brother and our sister’s husband were also unwell. For a moment, I felt like I was in a comedy sketch.
“Is it serious?” I asked.
My brother-in-law had been hospitalized for nearly two weeks, while my brother was only in isolation.
“Okay, thanks,” I said, feeling lost about what to do next. I realized my obligation was to call my mother.
“Hey, I heard about Dad,” I said. She explained how his oxygen levels had dropped so low that he had to be admitted. Since visits were prohibited, she would receive one daily phone call to keep her updated.
She remained calm, a trait I attribute to her background as a retired nurse. But, just like every other conversation we’ve had, an awkward silence settled in.
“Well, let me know,” I said.
“Sure,” she responded, and we hung up.
I’ve written before about the physical and emotional abuse my siblings and I endured. I eventually left home for a few months, only to return later to prove I was a good daughter.
Things did change: the hitting, screaming, and name-calling ceased, but the underlying issues were never addressed. “Look, we’re not doing the horrible things we used to do, so let’s move on,” seemed to be the unspoken agreement.
Years later, I moved out for good, albeit under more amicable circumstances. My parents disapproved of my independence, especially since I was a young woman living alone, but there was nothing they could do to stop me.
Here’s the crux: my parents never apologized for their actions. They never acknowledged the harm they caused. I’ve come to understand that they viewed their parenting methods as normal—something everyone did.
Eventually, they acknowledged their mistakes but never expressed remorse. This unspoken tension has lingered between us.
Have you noticed? Those who hurt you often rush you to forgive and forget. If you don’t, you’re labeled as bitter. Apparently, that’s what I’ve become.
My sisters maintain close relationships with our parents, which has perplexed me for years. I believe their need for help with childcare due to personal and professional reasons has kept them in contact with our parents, allowing them to form bonds I never experienced.
Technically, my father and I were colleagues. Though we never worked at the same school, we both taught in the public system. Since his recent hospitalization, I’ve received calls from fellow teachers inquiring about his condition.
“Hey, is your dad okay? Please, let me know,” they ask. These calls stress me out. While I know they are coming from a place of kindness, their surprise at my lack of emotional distress is palpable.
To the outside world, my father appears charming and delightful. “What a great person!” they say.
But I find myself in a moral quandary. This is the man who used to pull my hair and hit me with a belt for minor mistakes. The same man who, when I was about nine, called me a “disgusting pig” in need of weight loss. The man who terrorized me.
Now, at 64 years old and dealing with obesity, diabetes, and hypertension, he has many health risks. Thankfully, he received timely medical care, but the situation remains serious.
After my conversation with my mother, I couldn’t shake the question: “What do I feel?” Well, I’m not happy, but I’m not as devastated as I might expect a daughter to be.
Does it make sense that I wish I were crying? I realize now that I’ve built a thick wall between myself and my father. Harsh as it may sound, he is my father.
Let me rephrase: if I told you I had distanced myself from an abusive partner, would you still consider it extreme? Or would it make perfect sense?
My parents inflicted pain on me that few others have. I used to feel guilty about my distance, but now I see it as my mind’s defense mechanism against suffering. By detaching, I protect myself from being hurt again.
I don’t harbor hatred for them; it’s worse—I don’t think about them at all. The only thing keeping me connected is a sense of duty.
I do feel some sadness; I have been deprived of the father-daughter affection that others enjoy. This fractured relationship lies at the root of many of my emotional struggles. It’s almost cliché at this point.
I don’t want him to die, just as I wouldn’t wish death on anyone else. But it’s startling how little I care.
When I left home years ago, my father accused me of selfishness, saying, “You’re not thinking about the pain you’re causing us!” For a brief moment, guilt crept in, but then I thought about my own pain. Someone had to consider it, so I left.
Things have changed. I’m no longer a child. They can’t hurt me anymore. Now, I face a different threat: the risk of becoming emotionally numb and detaching from all people and experiences to avoid pain. Of all the things my parents did to me, this may be the most damaging.
But here’s the twist: this burden is no longer theirs to bear. I control my path now. Perhaps there was a time when this numbness served a purpose, keeping me safe.
However, all good things must end. I refuse to live as an emotional zombie, drifting through life—partially present, yet not fully engaged. This is the struggle I now face. I don’t know if I’ll overcome it, but I must try.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the complexities of having an estranged father hospitalized with COVID-19. After years of emotional and physical abuse, she grapples with feelings of detachment and conflicted emotions regarding her father’s health. Despite her family’s close ties, she feels an emotional wall between herself and her father, recognizing the impact of their troubled relationship on her life. As she navigates her feelings, she acknowledges the challenge of remaining emotionally present while protecting herself from past pain.