Fathers & Sins

Oct 10

My biological father wasn’t really present in my life growing up. He gave me up for adoption when I was a baby, and on the rare occasions he did show up, my mom and I got the wrath of an angry drunk. As a child, the most jarring memories feel like an unfamiliar, drunken hurricane. He’d leave embarrassment, abuse, and chaos in his wake. The cherry on top of his behavior was that he always played the perpetual victim—it was never his fault. I imagine even Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh would have been mortified by his complete lack of accountability.

By the time I turned 18, my emotional abuse tank was full. Years of drunken calls and embarrassing situations piled up, and the fact remained, he hadn’t even raised me. Then he forgot my name when he called the house I was living in while attending college. When my roommates answered the phone, my father would unremorsefully ask if the “c-word” was home. He casually used the word to reference me to my roomates. I didn’t speak to him for nearly a decade.

Ironically, his mother, my grandma, was a force for good in my life. We were thick as thieves, and I spent every summer with her. She was one of the few normal people in my world growing up, and I treasured her.

At the end of my twenties, as a mother of two, I felt a strong urge to call her. I hadn’t spoken to her in a month, and guilt was weighing me down. The feeling grew stronger until I finally dialed her landline. In hindsight, I’m so grateful I listened to that urge. We had the most beautiful, hour-long conversation about life, death, and everything in between. Though her only health issue was glaucoma, she was oddly resolved to go to heaven. As a devout Catholic, she told me she’d lived a full life and was ready for the pearly gates. We spoke on a Friday, on Saturday she broke her hip, and on Sunday she visited God. She knew it was our final call, and we said our goodbyes with love.

One of her dying wishes was for me to reconnect with my father, as he had supposedly given up alcohol. I spent the next two decades tolerating him, pretending to love him, and denying the years of abuse for his convenience. Although her wish was well intentioned, the dying wish of a “should” kept me squarely anchored in a relationship that was not healthy.

After a rough conversation with him, my daughter asked me three profound questions: Did I love my father? How did he make me feel? Does he deserve me? These questions opened a door that would never be shut again.

My father had two boys and so I had two half brothers. One passed away in his early twenties from an opioid overdose, and my other brother, Ty, has Down syndrome. My father did not raise Ty and he was rarely mentioned at all. I had been curious about Ty for years and wanted to meet him, but it wasn’t until I saw an intuitive worker that things shifted. She told me my energy needed to flow to my brother and not my father.

I got Ty’s number and called his mom. Ty’s mother had raised him for 35 years with fierce devotion. He was expected to live until the age of 10 years old, but his mom fed him all organic food, no candy and ensured that he lived well beyond his expected outcome. But, the week I reached her on the phone, I learned she was in hospice and dying. Due to her failing health, Ty was placed into foster care and her heart was broken into pieces. We had an amazing conversation, I booked a flight and we planned to meet the following week. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it in time. The morning she passed, she called to tell me, “Katie, the healthiest thing you can do for yourself is to take your dad out of your life equation.”

My grandma had wanted me to have a relationship with my father, and for 49 years, I honored that “should” request. But in breathtaking symmetry, Ty’s mother set me free. She passed before we met, but she knew I was coming. She knew her son had a sister, and that he mattered to me. I hope that brought her peace, because all a parent wants—if they’re worth their salt—is to know their child mattered to someone.

Days later when I met Ty, he was sweet, kind, and funny. A mutual friend introduced us, saying, “This is your sister, Katie.” Ty stopped, turned, and, with surprise in his voice, said, “sister,” over and over again. He hugged me like this new discovery was the coolest thing ever. Then he placed his hand on my heart, looked me in the eyes and said, “Good heart.” His words lifted a weight that I hadn’t realized I was carrying, and I absorbed the profoundness of the moment. We were two good hearts connecting for the first time.

It became clear that my father had dominated our lives for far too long. In meeting Ty, and choosing where to expend my energy, I had the strength to forge a new path for both myself and my brothers. The once darkened path became well lit to show us the way to our new future. We all deserved better and now, we were entitled to choose better. And I believe that by healing myself, the healing reaches well beyond me. It serves a bigger purpose for our collective greatest good. That feels like love and freedom. My hope is that we all feel like somebody’s special child.

Song that captures my feelings about alcoholic fathers. And more importantly, Ty’s song. Because he is somebody’s child and with pride, my brother.