My Dad, Minus Relationship

Parent relationships are complicated, especially when they’re ruined at every step. But are they unsalvageable? 

BY: ANONYMOUS

My earliest memories with my dad start when I was around age five or six. The earliest one was the day he showed up with a huge pile of ice and dropped it in front of our house. I remember it was late because the ice was gleaming with yellow light from the open door. At the time we were living in a summer city. It was incredibly rare for it to snow there, let alone an ice pile almost as big as my body to form. My dad encouraged me to eat a little bit. My mother said something back, though I can’t recall if it was to my dad, or to me for eating it. 

The house I used to live in. Taken in 2019. Photo courtesy of the author. // THE UNDERGROUND

I can imagine my dad having a smirk on his face, driving down from wherever he got the pile of ice down to our city, probably having been on the road for more than five hours. He wanted to show his kid ice, something I’d never seen before. He didn’t know if I was going to understand what it was, or be interested at all. Even though he was very absent in my life, he wanted to introduce ice to me so he drove 5+ hours on the road with a block of ice. 

That moment was complicated. I acknowledged I had a “dad.” But for me he was no different than a random person who had a right to show up. Around age five to seven he would appear out of the blue, with my mother letting me know a day in advance. Weirdly, I loved him, or was inclined to show love because he was my “dad.” Everyone around me liked their dad. But I didn’t bond with him until later; I barely remembered he existed until my mother said he was coming.

Our relationship was problematic before I was born. My parents were having a rough marriage before my mother’s pregnancy. My mother was hoping I would bring more stability. Six months after I was born, they got divorced and my custody was given to my mother. My dad was given the rights to see me every weekend and the whole month of July until the age of 18. In theory, I could only spend 1688 days with him until age 18. 

My dad was a naval architect. He designed many types of ships, mostly yachts, but he also worked in construction of private harbours. One of his bosses, a successful Jewish  businessman with a surname I remember was Papo, invited me and my dad on a holiday in Israel. It was one of many firsts for me. It was the first trip abroad that I can remember, my first and last super luxurious trip, my first safari, and the first time I interacted with people outside my culture (and was unable to communicate with them due to the language barrier). It was also one of the first occasions we spent time together in a very positive way, which acted as the foundation of our relationship.

Following Israel, he took me to France, where I saw the Eiffel Tower, Disneyland, all the classic places in France. From all of the trip, the few things I can remember are the view from the Eiffel, rides in Disneyland where thousands of baby dolls danced as you swam with a boat, and a very blurry image in front of the Arc de Triomphe with him while laughing happily.  Yet my dad was still somewhat absent. We’d only spend time together on these trips, and a couple of days throughout the year, but the rest of the time he’d still be gone save for the month of July. 

Then my mother and I moved to a new home which was designed by my mother and funded by my dad. These homes were two identical modest villas in the outskirts of the same town. My grandmother and grandfather left their jobs and luxurious town life on the other side of the country to move in next door to help my mother. 

Photos courtesy of the author.

Around this time I also started primary school. My dad always played an influential role in my education. He indicated that he wanted me to go to the school I went to because it had strong foundations. He also rented a house in the city so that he could start seeing me more. Now he was seeing me nearly every weekend.

Moving to the city allowed him to visit me more, but still, on many occasions, he would simply not show up. Sometimes I’d learn the day of that he wasn’t coming, sometimes he’d say he was coming but wouldn’t. On a typical Saturday, we had about eight to ten hours. We’d grab lunch, do an activity, then sit down somewhere until 8 p.m. My mother was often reluctant to give my dad additional hours or or allowance on sleepovers. Most of the time the activity was either playing games at internet cafes (remember those?) or watching a film at the theatre. On occasion we’d climb mountains, do botanical hunting, and travel the outskirts of the city. 

My life was no longer isolated from him. Moving into the city meant he’d be able to be a bigger part of my life. Now we were able to develop a stronger relationship. He had become a constant in my life, and I was old enough to think and connect with him. But that brought its own difficulties.

One day he came to pick me up from school. I was surprised because it wasn’t pre-arranged and it wasn’t a Saturday. I was used to his demanding and aggressive behaviour, but something else was afloat that day. I don’t know if my teacher prevented him from taking me, if by fate my mother found us, or if I called my mother to be sure. But I remember what happened when my mother and dad faced each other.

I learned later that my grandfather had passed away that day. My dad had come to take me to their city, a three-hour drive from where we were, without my mother’s knowledge. They fought aggressively at the school exit; the parents and children were watching, and the teachers were trying to break them apart. Later, he was supposedly banned from entering the school.

On three occasions, before he’d drop me off at my home on Saturdays, he’d ask, “Will you not invite me in, I have built this house.” I’d then feel obligated to invite him in. I was ten, maybe younger. When my mother opened the door, he’d say, “Your son has invited me in,” then she couldn’t say anything against it. Once he was in, they would start fighting in ten to 15 minutes. 

At that age I can't describe the feelings I went through. I wasn’t angry, because it wasn’t towards me. I wasn’t sad because I didn’t understand what they were fighting about. But I had an intense feeling of discomfort that I couldn’t channel. I remember one time I tried to break them apart by throwing a plastic snake, hoping it would break up the fight. It didn’t, and worse, they started using me as part of their argument: “Look you made him cry!”. Later, my mother installed an iron bar on our door that weighed about 30-40 pounds in case someone tried to break in. 

Often they would use me as their messenger. About finances, my school, what I was going to do in the summer, etc. But hateful messages and intimidation were among these too. One day after dropping me off, he told me to say to my mother something along the lines of “Tell your mother that I built that house and I can evict you anytime.” He didn’t actually mean to evict us, but to scare my mother. I don’t know which one was worse. 

But instead of going to my mother, I went to my grandmother, who had moved in next to us. I asked her and my grandfather, crying, if we could stay at their house because my dad might kick us out of ours. It was not my dad’s intent to hurt me but instead of scaring my mother, he caused me to be fearful and distrusting of him.

All of these interactions diminished my already mediocre image of him little by little, to the point that I didn’t want to meet up with him until I had to. Whenever we were together it would seem everything was in order. We would chat and have a decent time, I’d learn about stuff, he’d make me think about things and I’d enjoy it. The moment I left him, though, the feelings of dislike would surge back. To this day, I am always at unease before meeting him.

The months of July were not very different. He would make amazing plans and bring me unique experiences, yet he was a terrible caretaker and father figure. Our summers consisted of two things: extensive travelling and living in another town where he worked. Some highlights of the trip were him taking me across the country from one end to the other in his car. I have seen many cities, cultural spots, and important parts of the country thanks to him. He also paid a good amount of money to allow me to experience unique aspects of the cities I went to. 

But he didn’t really know how to take care of me. He would drink a lot and not eat a lot; consequently, he wouldn’t wake up until around 2-4 p.m., whereas I woke up around 8 a.m. I would wait at the house aimlessly, usually without a book, TV, phone, or anything to spend time with. He’d often sleep without a shirt, exposing his upper body to me. To this day, whenever I see an exposed upper male body that resembles some characteristics of his, it evokes a weird, unsettling feeling in me. 

When he woke up, it would be another couple of hours before I had anything to eat because he didn’t really cook. One time I was so happy to find a peach I tried to eat it without cutting it with my teeth, some of which were still missing. But it didn’t satisfy my hunger so I took my dad’s phone and called my mother. When I told her the situation, there was nothing she could do. She tried to call my dad’s friends to no avail; they couldn’t do anything. My mother was just left eight hours away in worry. 

Another time he got drunk and threw me into the pool of the hotel after midnight with my clothes on. After I swam out of the pool he threw me back in. The next night he told the parents of the girl I played with at the hotel that I secretly liked her. I was socially a very awkward child (that is a whole other tale), but she was one of the few friends I had made at the time. She and her parents stopped interacting with me. I was around ten, give or take; I could barely have interest in opposite sex, let alone have feelings. 

The best and most precious opportunity to strengthen our relationship, the months of July, were thus getting tainted. All the build-up we had made was mostly in vain. Our relationship was developing but with so many bad memories and an unstable foundation.

When I returned from my July trip with my dad, there was always a silent unrest. I couldn’t unload my baggage because it was too heavy for me, so my grandparents, mother, and sometimes neighbours (to protect and ease my mother) would unload the car and grab me from my dad. One time after I was dropped off I said goodbye to my dad (I think) and went in. That night two police officers came to our home and sat down with my mother and grandfather at our terrace. I later learned that my parents got into an argument after I went in and my dad smashed my grandfather’s car’s windows with a stone larger than two heads after I went in.

This speaks to the instances where two narratives collide. My mother tells me a story about why he did it, and my dad tells another. Their stories don’t add up, but if I continue to question, they’d both get agitated, especially my dad. So everything I know is my own interpretation in a sea of uncertainty. I would dictate my relationship with him based on the truth I barely trust myself.

From our trips and our time together, we barely have any pictures. Whenever someone tried to take our picture, I’d shy away to hide myself. While it was partially because I didn’t like my photograph being taken, I also did not like having photographs with him. Even today, although I love him, there is a sense of discomfort and dislike that arouses inside me when I am with him most of the time.

Around age nine or ten, my mother brought a visitor to our house. He was an intercontinental sea captain, older than her and my dad. His ship had docked in the shipyard that my mother worked at for maintenance. He was very attentive to me and my mother. He frequented our house often. Eventually he started to stay with us for longer periods of time.

A few years later, he married my mother and was officially my stepdad. I call him by his first name, because I never saw him as a dad and he didn’t try to be one. He never tried to give orders of any sort; but whenever I needed help or asked for assistance, he was there. He was really supportive of my mother and helped us through many hardships.

One time when I was staying with him in July, my aunt and uncle came to stay with us for some reason. They were staying one floor below us which you could access with the stairs from the living room. One morning I heard their sounds when I woke up so I went to say good morning to them. When I looked down the stairs, I saw my uncle in his underwear barely holding off my dad, who was trying to break free and beat my aunt. 

The reason was either that she supported my mother’s new relationship and possible marriage or that she was heading into politics. But I didn’t understand it back then. We later went to our car where he apologized. Only on super rare occasions do I kiss my parents; that day was one of them because I could sense he had strong emotions. I didn’t truly understand many of the things he did until I reflected on them much later. But it seems obvious to me that deep down, I internalized and repressed this dislike against him.

I was 11 years old when I finished primary school. Now my parents had to choose a middle school for me. For my mother, options were limited: she didn’t have much money to begin with so private schools were out of the question. At the time, my (other) aunt who was a teacher at one of the top schools called my mother, mistaking her as one of her students’ parents. After some brief small talk my aunt told my mom that my dad wanted me to go to a good school; he was on the same page as my mother, but because they did not speak, they did not coordinate. 

Thanks to my aunt, I was allowed to make a late application. I was then sent to live with my aunt to study for the entrance exam for three months. In a matter of a single week, I had moved from the city I lived in all my life to live with someone who I hadn’t spent more than a week with before, going from a small town to a very big city. My life was turned upside down.

Within three months, I had successfully passed the exam and we found a modest house with great rent. In this phase of life, my dad had also left some of his bad traits behind, or I started to not notice them because I wasn’t so dependent on him. I simply become less dependent on my parents and more autonomous as an individual. 

The three years following my move into the new city were marked with peace. Whenever my dad came, he’d stay at my aunt’s place, we’d have a good time, the family was together. It was also a more central city so there was more to do and my dad had more friends to see. And it was slightly more convenient for him. He paid for my school, which wasn’t a fortune but was still quite a large sum.

       My house in the city where I went to middle and high school. Photo courtesy of Google Maps.

During this period we’d see each other much more often. I also started seeing him more often than what the custody agreement allowed because my mom started to be more lenient with it. He was more involved with my life. We started to understand each other better and became more adaptable to each other. My relocation to the new city allowed us to create a more of a father-son relationship. 

I’d also started seeing a friend of his much more often. I didn’t know they were dating at the time; they had implied it, but I had never really processed it. My dad has an unbelievably large network of friends, and I assumed she was just one of them. I didn’t think there was anything peculiar about her. 

Later I learned that my dad did not marry her because of me. To this day I don’t exactly understand why, but I think it was along the lines of losing legitimacy over me. I had never asked him why. I didn’t dare to, because if there is anything he can be more than angry and volatile, it's sad and melancholic. But I haven’t stopped talking to her or visiting her. I probably talk to her more than my dad.

It was nearing the end of my middle school and the storm was on the horizon. After a few years of living right at the edge of the balance sheet, it was becoming near impossible for us to stay in the bigger city. But I didn’t want to go back to the small town where the future was being a lobby clerk or tourist guide. 

There was a growing conflict about my future. My mother wanted me to get a good education but had trouble staying with my current school, because my dad had some issues with payments to the school which she had to cover. My dad was growing restless because he didn’t think my mother was capable of making important decisions and was worried about her attitude. Then, just like the assassination of Franz Ferdinand, the long-forgotten alimony lawsuit resurfaced and started a series of long, painful events that none foresaw.

According to my dad, my mother reopened the lawsuit against my dad for alimony in order to get money for my high school, which he was already paying and was going to pay. According to my mother, she waived the case after my dad started paying for my middle school, but the lawyer reopened the case because he was supposed to be paid from the portion of the received money. After three months of back and forth, I was on the brink of moving into two different cities, leaving my mother for four years. Later it was settled for me to stay in the same city, but the grudges resurfaced again.

After this incident my life was, in a way, given its full autonomy. If I wanted to go on a school trip, it was up to me to find the funds. If I wanted to travel, all I had to arrange was funds from either party and the rest of the tasks such as planning logistics or convincing someone to take me was completely up to me. There was no time or distance limit on anything.

My relationship with my dad through high school was just like in middle school. I was less and less dependent on him. This in turn allowed him to do what he does best in our relationship—he showed me the world. He sponsored many of my international travels, paid for some private classes, and connected me with several of his friends. One significant event, which was very sad for him, was that he officially disowned me so that my stepdad could adopt me for bureaucratic reasons.

During high school I was able to travel with him farther and longer. It is true when they say travel is the best time to get to know someone and bond. While the bonding part wasn’t a success, travelling with him within our country and to different countries really provided the environment for us to create a new foundation for our relationship.

The past was still there, but we had more mutual understanding and respect for each other. I acknowledged that all this time there wasn’t a single moment he didn’t care about me, but the conditions were just not there for a normal father-son relationship.

Towards the end of high school, he really contributed to my university search and was the reason I was able to apply and get acceptance from several international universities. He started working under his friend as a technical consultant for several years on the condition that his friend, who became his boss, would pay my international student tuition.

While the tension and negativity linger—calling me a “retard” and not speaking for a month; on occasion saying, “If you didn’t exist, I’d be living in Paris, instead I am here living like this”; never supporting any of my job applications, and much more—we are in a much better place than before. His often cold and negative tone aside, we still don’t talk as often as we should, which is mostly on me.

It has been slightly more than 20 years since he became my dad. To this day I still learn new things. Like that I was conceived with the hopes that my dad would become more faithful and involved in the relationship. Or that he once called my mother to call an ambulance for him and the person he cheated on her with because he was so drunk. And that he wants me to graduate so he can die.

He wasn’t present in the early stages of my life, and I never had him or anyone as a father figure in my life. I had to learn many things by myself, such as shaving. But despite everything, I feel like he was a better dad than most dads out there. He showed me the world from an early age; even from afar he did his best to ensure I got the best education possible, and he’s interested in what I’m doing. If it wasn’t for him, I would not have been able to leave my small town, see the world, or become who I am today without him doing all of this.

My relationship with my dad was never steady, and I doubt it will be. We’ve never had the chance to make it something better, but deep down, I know he really loves me and cares about me. Despite everything that happened, we were able to create a relationship among all the hardships. I am not angry at him for what has happened. Things could have been different but they don’t need to be. I appreciate him for everything he has done for me so far and I love him just as he loves me.

Me and my dad from a trip to Israel, holding a sedated crocodile. Photo courtesy of the author.