Father to daughter

He sat on my bed today, holding my hand, telling me all the things a daughter wants to hear from her father.

His voice shook. He cried almost as hard as I did. He held my hand the entire time. He heard me in a way my mother never has.

He said that they weren’t deserting me, leaving me behind when they move. He heard me say I need to be acknowledged and treated with respect. He acknowledged my pain and was heartbroken to have been part of the cause.

He told me they didn’t want to burden me anymore with their care. That I had done enough and now it was time for my sister to take over.

My heart broke as he said they thought they were holding me back from doing and being what I should do and be. That he hoped that my taking care of them wasn’t why I haven’t been able to get further. And that he knows that I am following a difficult path, one that they both don’t want me to abandon. In fact, he assured me that I never need to worry financially, that what I was doing was special and difficult and that they want to see me continue. Then he said he wants me to keep going because he wants to be able to point up at the screen and, as his eyes overflowed with tears, be able to say, “That’s my girl.”

He shared with me the difficulties with my mother, but then told me how she takes care of him and how he loves her for that. Not in those words but it was clear in his eyes that she is the one he will be with till his last day, whether it’s six months from now or another 30 years from now. He shared my pain in how she communicates - or how she fails to. He acknowledged how difficult she is but without diminishing either of us. But talked gently and quietly, making it okay to say, yeah, she makes me crazy but with a smile, not a scream.

And he never let go of my hand.

He talked about the life they’ll have in the Great North and how it’ll be good for them and again assured me that they aren’t leaving me behind, just moving forward.

Then he stopped, his eyes unable to look at me because I would see his heart in them. He said, “We’re breaking up.” I was confused until he explained that it felt like our family was breaking up because I wouldn’t be there with them. He told me how hard it was when I left Winnipeg all those years ago, to find my way while they stayed behind at home. That one of the main reasons they moved down here was because of me.

He squeezed my hand as he assured me that we would talk a lot, that we should talk a lot. That they would always be there, no matter what I needed. And that my sister and her husband also would be there, so I could continue to walk my path and be the person I’ve been trying to be without having to worry about being burdened with their care.

He acknowledged how much I’ve done and how proud he is of me. He wanted me to know that they never meant to hurt me or disrespect me. They were afraid I would be hurt and feel that they were deserting me so they didn’t want to talk about it. He heard me when I said that I needed to talk about it and that I needed them to share this with me, not cut me out and leave me standing at the side of the road.

Through numerous interruptions by both my mother and my cat, he never let go of my hand.

In the end, it wasn’t his words but his eyes and his gentle grip that told me all I needed to know. My father loves me more than he can ever express. He respects me and understands me in a way that no one else in my family does or ever will. He told me that I am his daughter and that’s enough for him. That what I do has value, that who I am has value, that, to him, I will always have value.

All because he sat on my bed today, holding my hand, telling me all the things a daughter wants to hear from her father.