When I was nineteen my father and I had another falling out. For the past year we tried to communicate with civility and he even helped me financially while I was waiting for my unemployment insurance to kick in. I was invited to a barbecue at his home where my brother and some of his friends would be present. I wasn't quite aware at the time, though it was very obvious, that my brother was daddy's favourite and it wasn't so much that I had done anything to offend him that my father kicked me out when I was seventeen but to make room for his precious son who needed a place to hang his hat while he looked for a job. Being up against a house full of ignorant bigots, during the barbecue, did nothing to endear me to any of them. I left in a rage and didn't speak to any of them for almost a year.
When I was twenty, with Mom's nagging and meddling, my father and I again tried to build a relationship. Our first few visits for me were fraught with tension and stress and I often found myself hyperventilating and shaking after each visit. My father became intrigued with me and found me to be unusually wise for a youth of twenty-one. He was also trying to come to terms with his alcoholism and seemed intent on self-improvement. He never did become for me a father. We did seem to be developing a nervous friendship.
When I was twenty-two he helped fund my college education, since this was a condition laid by Canada Student Loan. Twice a week, between classes, I would walk across the golf course to his apartment where we would chat and have lunch together.
When I was twenty-five my father visited me, as part of the conditions of his twelve-step program, to apologize for the things he had done to me. He didn't specify which things but I accepted the apology as genuine.
So, throughout my twenties and into my thirties our friendship developed and even throve a little, but it didn't occur to me till long after that he never really did love me as his son, never had, never would.
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