The Sacrifices He Gave

As a child, I feared my father.

More specifically, I knew so little of him that I was constantly worried an imposter would be coming home instead of him and I would not know whether he was truly my father. What is his favourite colour? His favourite food?

My father spent weeks away at a time, constantly on business trips. Not infrequently, he would come home late one night after dinner and be gone by the time I got home from school the next day. By my estimates, I saw him about a week combined per month--two days here, 17 hours there.

Much of what I know as an adult about my father was told in bits and pieces by other adults. My uncle explained his job to me, my aunt told me he lived in (and understands?) Germany.

As an adult, I pity my father.

He dedicated his whole life to his children and they barely know him. My father didn't get the opportunity to know his kids. It's the weirdly patriarchal dichotomy--men don't get to know their kids because they have to work to provide, and men are slated for not knowing their kids.

My father suffered a heart attack for his work. In return, his children are distant from him, unknowing how to bridge all the gaps left behind. Generational, for all the ways life has changed since he was our age. Cultural, for all the ways the western world differs from our home culture. And that bridge of simple distance, of not really knowing if your father is a stranger.

In not knowing my father, he tried to make up for it in so many other ways. Expensive presents (that are wildly inappropriate for our age or unaligned with our interests), offers of money for everything and anything (difficult to accept when you've been raised to be independent), and acts of service (driving us to places, mostly).

All of these are clearly bids for connection. Love me, know me, spend time with me.

As a woman, I resent my father.

He doesn't do chores. He leaves all of them for my mother. He is typically patriarchal--your skirt is too short. Women aren't engineers, you're better suited for teaching. Aren't you worried about marrying someone who can't support your living expenses?

He was absent and I was raised effectively by a single mother. When he was present, I had to learn to cook and clean because he did it so badly that I could not stand it. He epitomises the father who worked too hard to know his children's birthday and ages.

It seems almost fitting that when he retired from his work, he had little left. He spends his days playing games on his iPad. But over and over, I want to yell at him. Help my mother, tell me more about your life. Wash the dishes, be my father. Come be part of this family.

As a daughter, I love my father.

I love him in whole, for who he is and who he is not. I love him for trying his best with the resources he has. I love him flaws and all.

For years, my only connection to him was forwarding chain emails to him (hamster olympics, anyone?) and the rare (expensive) long distance phone call. And yet, despite feeling at times like strangers, this man will pick up my phone at 3 am.

He still comes to get me in my time of need, even though I've now moved halfway across the world. He will cook for me (badly) and listen to my rambles when he doesn't know what else to interject. He takes me to amusement parks even though he can't ride any of the roller coasters. He listens patiently to my language barriers and tries to understand (both my broken language and my problems).

And though I wish it could be different, I wouldn't change my past for the connection I have with my father now.

I'm thankful for what I had and have, for the sacrifices he gave for me and the love he shows me in his own way.

For more musings on my upbringing and heritage, please check out The Path Home.