It’s been seven years since I last spoke to my father. Before that, we talked every day. Long, sprawling conversations about life, politics, fly fishing, and hunting. He was my sounding board, my confidant, and for hours at a time, we’d lose ourselves in discussions. But our connection was a thorn in someone else’s side—his wife.
She hated our bond, resented the time he gave me. She’d complain endlessly that he spent too much time chatting, accusing him of neglecting her. It wasn’t subtle—she wanted me out of the picture, and she worked tirelessly to make that happen. My father, a different man when he was with me, would shift back to her orbit when she was around. His posture changed, his tone softened, as if he was apologizing for being himself. She could always tell when we had been talking, and her jealousy turned into manipulation.
The breaking point came after I felt the deep sting of abandonment. My father, who had built a new family with his wife, had three other adult children from their union. If they needed something, they got it. No hesitation, no second-guessing. But I was the bastard child, the one she made sure knew his place. She treated me like an outsider, and my father never had the backbone to stand up to her.
He was a weak man, unable to confront the discomfort of his own failings.
For me, the final straw came during one of the hardest times in my life. After a bitter divorce, I was left with nothing—my bank account drained, my future uncertain. I had an opportunity to rebuild, to move to Hawaii for a high-paying job, but I needed help to get there. I asked my father for $5,000, just enough to get back on my feet.
His response was dismissive, cutting. “Keep your resume updated,” he said, his tone laced with doubt. “You won’t last.”
I begged him. Pleaded. Told him how desperate I was. Finally, he relented, but not in the way I hoped. He gave me $2,000, broken into small installments, each one a reminder of his reluctance to truly help me.
The anger boiled over.
“Fuck you, Dad,” I said, the words sharp and unyielding. “Go fuck yourself.”
And then I stopped talking to him.
The silence since then has been louder than any argument we could have had. It’s a silence that speaks of betrayal, disappointment, and a bond shattered by weakness and manipulation.
I’ve thought about reaching out, about breaking the silence, but every time I do, I remember the man who couldn’t stand up for me, who chose convenience over connection. And so, the silence remains—a heavy, unspoken statement that echoes louder than words ever could.
