A letter

A letter from my father came in the mail yesterday.

For anyone else, this would evoke nothing more than an, Oh, I wonder what Dad's up to? kind of thought. Not pukey feelings in the pit of their stomach. Not a shaky anxiousness. Not the inability to check what else came in the mail because doing so would involve having to look at the envelope, to see his name, his handwriting.

When Greg brought the mail in and told me of the letter, I shut my eyes and waited for the throw-up-ey feeling to pass before returning to what I had been doing before he'd walked in the door. "Don't you want to open it?" he asked. I made a face and shook my head. "Not at all. Please just take it away and put it somewhere, out of my sight."

I did my best to avoid thinking about it until a few hours later when Greg asked again if I was going to open it, and if not, could he? He just doesn't get that I have no desire to even touch that envelope, because touching it would mean touching something that he has touched. He also doesn't get that I don't need to open it, because I already know exactly what it says. It's the same old story he's given me my entire life. And now that I am a grown up and have done my best to separate myself from him and his anger, his lies, his immaturity, well... I don't have to hear that story anymore. He is not a part of my life, for good reason.

The last time I spoke (excluding a few random e-mails or letters) to my dad was... hm... college, I think? That would be about 5 or 6 years ago. I had e-mailed him to ask if he could help me pay for a semester abroad that summer. Not money for clothes, or for a spring break trip or something. FOR SCHOOL. And instead of just a simple no, he called me up to yell at me for not working hard enough to pay for it myself, and to tell me all about how he gives my mom money every month to take care of my sister and I, he gives her so much, in fact, that he is living in near poverty himself, in poverty!, just so that we can eat and be clothed, and did I know that when they were getting divorced, my mom said this to him and did that? did I? and blah blah blah BLAH, other stuff that had nothing to do with me or the reason I had e-mailed him in the first place.

I was sorry I'd ever asked.

He e-mailed me once more after that "conversation," and I may have e-mailed him back. Then I didn't have any contact with him again until right after Jack was born. He e-mailed me to say congratulations on the baby (my sister had told him I was pregnant, not me). The rest of the e-mail was so him: he told me about his girlfriend, and their dogs, and how happy they were, and how he's a different person now than he was with my mother, a happy person who has learned to deal with his anger, and how was I doing? how's the baby? and oh, he's sooo happy to be a grandfather! he keeps a picture of Jack in his wallet and shows it to everyone (we very stupidly had our Flickr pictures available to anyone to view and download, which is the only reason he had pictures of Jack). Just more of the same old bull. He is the MASTER of pretending like everything is perfect and that things have always been that way, and when you call him on it, he acts like he has no idea what you're talking about and makes you feel like you are crazy, and eventually, after being around him enough, you really start to wonder if he's right.

When he said that, about carrying Jack's picture around with him, I kind of lost it. Here was this person who, despite being my father, really had never been a part of my life. Sure, he lived in our house until my parents finally got divorced my senior year of high school (except for the 3 or 4 times they separated, a few months to a year at a time, each), but he was a workaholic and never around. And when he was there, it was only to abuse my mother and make life hell for all of us. We hadn't spoken in years or seen each other in even longer, and here he is walking around with a picture of MY SON, pretending like he's a grandpa? Like he's someone's dad? He had no right to pretend that we had any kind of relationship and it made me so mad.

I was so tired of listening to all his crap. Not only that, I didn't want my son to have to listen to his crap, either. There was no way I was going to subject my child to this guy. I e-mailed him back and said, word for word: "If you want to be a part of Jack's life, if you have changed, as you say you have, then fine. I won't stop you from knowing him. All I ask is that you cut the crap and quit pretending like you and I have a relationship, because we don't." And that was it. That was my entire response. I felt like I was being fair- up until this point, whenever he would give me the "But I've changed" line, I never cared. It didn't change my mind; I still wanted nothing to do with him. That choice only affected me, so it was mine, MY choice, and that's all there was to it. But now I had a child to consider, and I felt like I owed it to my son to give him a chance to have a grandpa, if it was possible.

Well, the response I got back began, "You know, I'm really tired of how selfish and immature you are. I am still giving your mother X amount of money each month..." And that was as far as I read. There was lots more, but I never read it. I still haven't, and that was two and a half years ago. Since then, he sent me a card once, and it said something like "I'm not sending Jack any birthday or Christmas presents. Instead I opened an account in his name and I deposit money in it each month." As if to imply that were he to send any money, I'd probably keep it for myself or something? And am I supposed to think he's being a good grandpa because he is putting money into an account for my son to get when he turns 18? He IS NOT a grandpa, at all. He has never met my son nor had any contact with him! Giving him money does not make you a part of his life.

That's why the letter that came in the mail yesterday is still sitting on the counter, face down. I know what it's going to say. I've heard the story a hundred times over the past 10 years. I know if I read it, it'll just upset me and stress me out. And I know that given all the postpartum hormones flowing through me right now, I find plenty to be upset and stressed about all on my own, I don't need anyone's help with that.

But at the same time, there's still this stupid little kid inside me hoping that her dad will notice her, and like her, and be nice to her. Hoping that he'll acknowledge all the awful things he did and said over the years, and maybe say that he's sorry for them. I know the chances of this happening is like, zero. Slim to nothing, as they say. And even if it did happen, I still wouldn't want to like, talk to him or anything. At least not now, not anytime soon.

I might open it. I might have my husband open it and read it, that way if there is actually something in it that doesn't involve blame or insults or him telling me how awful I am, he can pass it along to me. And then I can throw it out. Or I might just let it sit there on the counter for the rest of my life.