“My father was an addict. As a child his drug of choice was alcohol. When he drank, he took his life’s frustrations out on my mom. There are many nights I can recall waking up to their fights and crying in hopes they would stop. One night I was sleeping in bed with my mom because he hadn’t come home but when he finally arrived in the middle of the night, he announced his arrival by ripping her out of bed and throwing her to the floor. His addiction destroyed our family and when she found a chance to get us out, she took it. She moved us from South Carolina to New York when I was ten-years-old. She married the man who would take over my father’s role, the man I would eventually refer to as my dad.
When I was a teenager my father’s drug of choice was crack. During this time, he disappeared from our lives. He chose the high over his children. This is difficult for a young girl to comprehend so I decided I would claim I hated him. The words were easy to say but my heart wouldn’t allow this hate to fester or even exist. After all, he was my dad. He was the man who would take me on Saturday mornings to get a doughnut. He was the one who told me repeatedly I would have a college degree before I ever had a husband, something that ended up being true. I couldn’t hate him; even though I wanted to. Then one day a doctor prescribed him OxyContin and that became his drug of choice. When the prescription ran out the addiction stayed and led him to make many poor decisions. He lost the house my uncle left for my brothers and me. He went as far as selling the porch on that house to get money for drugs. He lost everything which led him to a bank, gun in hand, ready to rob it. He was sentenced to four years in prison in South Carolina. During that time our relationship started over, yet again. We started writing to each other, telling each other our stories. Filling in the gaps where he had been absent. I was in my early twenties, single, a college student, and I made a decision that would shift the course of our lives.
Forgiveness. I chose to forgive my dad and offer him a home in New York with me. I knew if I didn’t, he would die. He had no one else. He had hurt my brothers far beyond repair. I was his only hope. So, I forgave him. Even knowing he would hurt me again, I forgave him. Even when some of my family warned me not to, I forgave him. Even when I angered those I loved by allowing him back in my life, I forgave my dad. In doing so, he did hurt me again at times, but memories were made. Precious memories. It became our ritual to go grocery shopping every Saturday. He would get in my car and say, ‘Hey Sweetheart, how ya doing?’ He would text me during the Cowboys’ games to complain about a call or rejoice in a play. When I became pregnant with my first son, I was warned not to let my dad too close. My response never changed, ‘the more people that love my child the better.’ And boy did he love that child. When he walked through my door all of his energy went to playing with my son.
My dad told me once he knew he was a terrible dad but he would make up for it by being the best grandpa in the world. And that was one promise he kept. I remember watching as he pulled Nolan around the yard in the middle of winter on a sled. I remember Nolan sitting on his lap while they played a dinosaur game on my dad’s phone. Nolan loved him and he loved Nolan. My dad lived within fifteen minutes of me for five and a half years. Then, in January of 2018 he decided to move closer to my brother so he could help him with his home remodeling business. He would live an hour away from me now which meant no more Saturday morning shopping trips. No more sporadic trips to the zoo. I felt like he was abandoning me again. I was angry and hurt but it didn’t last long. I adjusted like I had learned long ago.
