I had an interesting dinner date tonight (or supper, as my grandaddy Israel would call it): I met with my father to tell him in person he’d be a grandfather next year. It actually went pretty well, and we spent an hour and a half pretty much just chitchatting like regular folks.
I think he’s felt uncomfortable around me ever since my renewed contact with that branch of the family a few years ago. It’s almost like he expects me to bring up some aspect or other of our unfortunate history together… but the most obvious feature of our shared past is an almost complete lack thereof. The past is gone, and I hope he’ll eventually come to realize that there’s nothing left for me to hold over his head.
I stayed pretty angry with him for a long time for being absent during my childhood, and I actually changed my name the day I turned 18. I realize now it was a mistake, but it’s one that can’t realistically be undone. My motives were wrong, too, because wanting to put a painful past behind me was only part of the equation. I also wanted to hurt him badly. The biggest problem with that, or the second biggest thing, rather, right after the wrongness of my intent, was that it wound up hurting grandpa Israel a whole lot worse.
Anyway, none of that matters anymore, and I hope he accepts that someday soon. He’s going to be a grandfather, after all, and I don’t want my own children to suffer from the same lingering disease that corrupted my family so badly. They’re going to need their grandpa, and I intend to clear the way for him to fulfill that need as thoroughly as he wishes.
Viva la famille.