Gifts from my Father

I came home later than normal that night. Technically my curfew was 9:00 PM, but Mom said that I could stay out as long as I wanted. Which I appreciated, because it meant I wouldn't be in trouble, since I was staying out late no matter what she said. The last thing I wanted was to come home early and see my Dad packing up his things. Their divorce was hard enough, I didn't need the fact that my dad was moving across the country thrown in my face. So I stayed away.

I got home around 11:00. The house was dark and quiet, clearly Mom had gone to bed. I crept through the house quietly, not wanting to scare her. As I reached her bedroom door, I knocked lightly three times. I heard a muffled "good night" from inside, an acknowledgement that she knew I was home and safe. That done, I headed back out into the kitchen for a drink before turning in myself. As I turned the light on, a shaft of the light fell into the dining room, illuminating a large box wrapped in brown paper sitting on the table. It piqued my curiosity, because I knew Dad had to take everything today, since he was driving to California very early tomorrow morning. I went and looked at it.

'For Henry, Love Dad' read an envelope taped to the top of the box. I shook my head and went back to the kitchen, abandoning the box entirely. My dad had been trying to reach out to me for most of the past month, and I'd avoided him as much as possible. If he loved me so much, why was he leaving? Why was he bailing on his responsibilities, on his wife, on his fifteen year old son, just to move across the country? Rationally, I knew it was more complicated than that, that he was following his career, and that my parents divorce was built on a number of factors beyond just a transcontinental relocation, but emotionally? I was just angry, and wanted my dad to not be gone. So I did what every angry teen did, I chose a target and lashed out. And Dad was my target. This mysterious package was simply the latest attempt, and I was going to respond the same way I had all the others, by ignoring it.

I went to bed.

I woke up the next morning late, taking advantage of the weekends lack of commitment to sleep in until nearly 10:00AM. As I entered the kitchen once again, I found my mother sipping coffee and smiling at me. My mother was in her early forties, short, with blond hair and brown eyes. Looking back, I can say objectively that she was pretty enough, but her looks were marred currently by the puffiness around her eyes, and the redness of the eyes themselves. That morning in the kitchen, she tried to put on a brave face for me, but I could tell she'd been crying even a minute before. She had heard me coming downstairs and composed herself, but I, of course, wasn't fooled. She spent more time crying than not crying these days. "Good Morning!" She said brightly.

"Good morning Mom." I said, just as brightly, and just as falsely. I opened the refrigerator, pulling out the orange juice. "How are you?" I asked, knowing she'd lie.

"Oh, I'm just fine Honey." She lied, unsurprisingly. She paused for a long moment. "Your father was hoping you'd be home before he left last night." She said with a forced casualness. I grunted noncommittally, pouring my orange juice "He said he'd call in a few days when he got to Los Angeles, to let us know he got there safely." More casualness from her, more grunting from me. "He left you something. He said you should open it as soon as you got it." I drank down my glass of juice in one long gulp, rinsed out the cup in the sink, then finally turned toward her.

"I saw it." I said shortly. "I think I'll go for a bike ride." I turned to head back out.

"Henry!" My mother called plaintively. I paused at the door. "I know you're angry, and I won't say you're wrong to be, but he's still your father. He still loves you. This is important to him. Please. For me." Damn her. At this point, that was the only thing that could have stopped me from storming out. I turned and looked at her for a long moment, saw her eyes, filled with more tears, as yet unshed. Without a word I went and collected the box, retreating to my room once more. I barely heard my mother's whispered "thank you" as I went.

Once I was ensconced in my room again, I put the box on my desk, sat in my chair in front of it, and looked at it for a long time. A LONG time. For more than an hour I sat in front of that box. I tried to open it. I cut the paper open. I took the envelope off the package. I even opened the envelope. But I didn't take out the letter. I didn't fully open the package. I couldn't. I was too angry. I resented him too much in that moment. Finally I tucked the envelope back into the package and took the whole thing out of my room, up into the attic, and tucked it in a back corner, where I thought Mom wouldn't notice it. And I closed the attic door with finality.

Over the past twenty years, my relationship with my father improved. It was never back to what it was, but it got better. We talked now and again, and I even visited him in Los Angeles every few years. But I never mentioned the box, and neither did he. In truth, I forgot about it. Until the phone call last night.

I drove to my mother's house this morning, the same house, the same as always. She never moved, she never left. As I entered the same kitchen, my mother sat in the same spot. Now she is in her sixties, but still healthy and active. There were no tears, there was no puffiness in her face, but she immediately got up and hugged me. "Oh, Honey. How are you doing?"

I hugged her back for a long moment, then released her. "I'm ok. We knew it was coming, the cancer had spread too much. And the doctors said there wasn't much pain in the end. How are you?"

She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Oh, you know me. Your father was a good friend, but it's been a long time. I'm fine." And this time, she wasn't lying, at least, not entirely. There was pain in her eyes, but not the kind there had been those years ago. Now it was a shared pain, a mother instinctively trying to share the burden of her child's grief.

I hugged her again, and said quietly, "I need to get something from the attic, do you mind?"

"Oh, of course not Honey, you know you're always welcome. I'll make some breakfast." It wasn't a question. I left her to her cooking and climbed the worn, but well cared for steps.

As I entered the attic, I could already see the box, exactly where I had left it. I pulled it out, dusted off the top, and stared at it for several minutes. Finally, I pulled out the envelope, opened it, and after twenty long years, pulled out the letter.

Henry,

I know you're quite angry with me at the moment, and I don't blame you. It must be very hard, from your perspective, to comprehend why I would do this. Please know that leaving you behind was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I desperately wanted to take you with me, but I knew your mother would need your support more than I would. That is not to say that I am in any way stronger or tougher than her, simply that she too, has every right to be angry with me. You are the man of the house now, it falls to you to be there for her, since I won't be. I will leave off here with two requests of you, though I know I've no right to ask them. Firstly, be good to your mother. Don't give her any added grief or sorrow. And secondly, try not to let your anger consume you. Even if you don't forgive me, allow your anger to fade. Don't let my mistakes define you. And remember, I do love you, with all my heart.

Yours,

Dad.

I wiped away a stray tear, and reread the letter. After several moments, I pulled the box toward me and looked into it, ready, for the first time in twenty years, to fully forgive my father and accept what gifts he had given me.