My father, the orchestrator of our chaos, was a man driven by one singular obsession: saving every penny until retirement. He was a tightwad of the highest order, a miser disguised as a provider. His idea of building a future was buying broken homes in good neighborhoods, spending years and every waking moment fixing them up until they were pristine, and then selling them to roll his profits into the next project. It was a rinse-and-repeat cycle that consumed him, and by extension, consumed us.
For his wife of 35 years and his three children, this lifestyle was anything but stable. We were nothing more than supporting characters in his grand scheme for financial security. Like a traveling circus, we packed up everything and moved to the next “perfect project” house, leaving behind schools, friends, and any sense of permanence.
My father wasn’t cruel; he was indifferent, an emotional void disguised as a man with a plan. His 9-to-5, blue-collar mentality shaped his entire existence. He wasn’t religious, but he carried himself with a self-righteous air, a man convinced his way was the only way. My mother used to say, “They act like their shit don’t stink,” and she was right. His pursuit of perfection in his homes was matched only by his imperfection as a father.
He wasn’t there when we needed him most. While he hammered nails and patched drywall, our lives moved on without him. His absence loomed large in every milestone he missed, every scraped knee, every heartbreak. His quest for a comfortable retirement undermined his potential to be a good father, and by the time he realized it, it was too late.
When I was 13, he made the ultimate statement of his indifference. After the divorce, when things got messy, he signed me away—paperwork and all. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was that he didn’t care enough.
After signing me off, he retreated to the Sierra Mountains with his buddies, leaving my mother to cycle through a revolving door of men. He escaped the chaos of family life, preferring the solace of campfires and fishing trips to the messy reality of being a father.
Now, deep into his 70s, he’s hidden away in the mountains of Colorado. His marriage, once a partnership, has become a hollow shell. Loveless and stagnant, it mirrors the empty houses he left in his wake.
His children have all moved away, each escaping for their own reasons, carving lives as far from his shadow as possible. We’ve scattered like ashes, spread across the wind, carrying pieces of him we’d rather leave behind.
He sits alone now, surrounded by the fruits of his labor—a house filled with things, material wealth he can’t take with him, and memories that grow heavier with each passing year. His savings, his possessions, his perfectly staged life—it’s all there, and yet he has no one to share it with.
Enjoy the fruits, old man. They’re all yours.
