My Perfect Dad Was An Imperfect Man
The story of an unlikely hero
Photo by Amine M’siouri
My close bond with my father remained intact from my birth in 1968 to his death in 2003. It was almost fitting that he died of coronary artery disease because his heart had been broken all his life, first by his family and then by my mother. When my dad had his final heart attack, I stayed by his side in the hospital for three days and nights praying for him to get better. He wasn’t conscious, but I told him everything I wanted to say about us.
My husband convinced me to go home for a while and get some rest, then called a short time later to tell me my father was dead. My dad passed away when I wasn’t around, and I believe that’s the way he wanted it. He spared me having to watch him go, knowing it would be more than I could handle.
My father grew up as the black sheep of his family. Both his father and mother were physically abusive, but he loved his mother dearly, perhaps not knowing what she was doing was wrong. My dad’s brother was the favorite son while my dad was the “screw-up.” Their mother died in an accident just after they both graduated from high school. My dad told me the first and only time his father put an arm around him was at her gravesite. At the time, I thought it was the saddest thing I’d ever heard.
With his family fractured, my dad gathered what money he could and walked away from his family forever. He began going by an alias and never saw, spoke or exchanged letters with any of them for the rest of his life. I had a relentless curiosity about this family I’d never met and asked my dad tons of questions about them, especially my grandmother. He answered all of them honestly despite the fact that reliving the memories likely hurt him.
When I was growing up, my father doted on me constantly, which made my mother extremely jealous. She constantly accused my poor dad of loving me more than her. In her quest to make him look bad and herself good, she told me the stories about how she and my dad jetted off to Hawaii together without telling a single soul where they were going. My maternal grandmother thought my mom had been kidnapped and put up paper flyers all over town about her missing daughter.
My mother would lean toward me when she confessed the “worst part” of the story as if she didn’t want me to miss one word of it.
“Your father left his wife and two little boys to run off to Hawaii,” she confided. “He didn’t even say goodbye to them.”
I must have heard this over and over during my youth, but it never changed the way I felt about my dad. After all, my mom had been sitting on the plane right next to him, so she was hardly innocent. She always seemed to leave that part out.
I’m not sure exactly when my mother began to hate my father. She told me cruel jokes where he was the punchline. Right before the end of their relationship, the three of us were in a grocery store. My dad had just been released from the hospital after double cataract surgery and could barely see anything.
“Let’s run away!” my mother shouted cheerfully at me.
I thought it was a game and rushed down the aisle alongside her. She handily beat me in the race, but when I looked back, I saw my father standing helpless in the same spot where we’d left him. Remembering that he couldn’t see, I rushed back to his side and apologized. I’d never seen him look so sad. Even at the age of ten, I knew he and my mother were over.
After my parents split up for good, my father spent most of his life as a lonely man. He never quite got over my mother despite how unkind she behaved toward him. I almost felt guilty for resembling her, worried that my father would see my mom every time he looked at me.
I’d visit him at the motel he managed, and we spent hours in the front office talking in between checking in customers. I’d complain to my dad about my mom because I thought he was the only one who truly understood her. There wasn’t much he could do to help, but he was always supportive and had my back.
When I gave birth to my first child in 1998, my dad was thrilled with his new role of grandfather. I’d feed or rock the baby and catch my father staring at me off to the side.
“What?” I asked with a smile.
“Oh, I was just watching you “mother.” The little girl that I used to take care of has a baby of her own. I’m so proud of you.”
Many years ago, my father found a new woman to share his life with. I never saw my dad happier than the day he married Priscilla. They only dated about six weeks before tying the knot. It was my job to give my father away, and the part of me that was jealous of them resented handing my dad over to her. I had been the closest person to my father before she came along, and I withheld my love from Priscilla as only a stepdaughter can do.
Priscilla was only married to my dad for about two months when she died of a heart attack in the middle of the night. I rushed to my father’s side the next day feeling like I’d done something terrible as if my bitterness had somehow caused her death. My father had been given a real chance to move on and be happy, and I found myself angry at God for taking Priscilla away from him. After her death, he seemed even lonelier and retreated from everybody so he wouldn’t get hurt again.
There was another brief marriage after Priscilla that nearly broke my father. In his sixties, he fell in love with one of the younger maids at the hotel. She told him she needed a green card and asked my dad to marry her. I told him to be careful, but his loneliness and sadness won over. He truly believed she loved him back and pushed aside any red flags.
The whole marriage was over so fast that I don’t even remember her name. My dad tried to get the woman to love him and accept me as her daughter, but she was too busy making plans to leave the state with her new green card. He never saw her again, and his hopes for someone to share his life with were dashed.
There came a time when I became the parent and my dad the child. He had a history of three heart attacks and had been diagnosed with prostate cancer shortly after that. I took him into my home and cared for him around the clock. He was too exhausted to shower, so I bathed him in the tub. It’s funny how things change and roles are reversed. My father needed me, just as I had needed him, and I stayed by his side for the rest of his life.
One day after his third heart surgery, I found him delirious in his hospital room. His doctor told me it was likely an anesthesia side effect. When my father called me by my mother’s name, I didn’t correct him because it would have only made his confusion worse. Still, it made me a little sad that he still pined for the woman who had been so cruel to both of us. Calling me his wife seemed to calm him down. It was the last time I ever saw him awake.
For all the years I had my dad in my life, we barely ever had an argument, and he never spanked me once. My father was determined to break the cycle of abuse he’d suffered, and I was the beneficiary of his patience and understanding. Perhaps knowing what a sensitive child I was made him go easier on me. Even a moderately stern word from him would make me dissolve into tears. Even so, I never doubted that he loved me unconditionally.
During our long talks at the motel in my younger days, I spent hours plying him with questions about his younger life and his estranged family.
“Dad,” I said. “I only want to hear about these things because it seems like your life didn’t start until after I was born.”
My dad looked at me in all seriousness. “Because it didn’t.”
I know my beloved father wasn’t perfect, but he was the perfect father for me. I miss him every day.
I had a similar dad with a cruel wife and a rough upbringing. He had a heart of gold but catered to my mother's needs until the end. I wished he had received more and better love in his life.