A father and daughter often have a close relationship. “Daddy’s little girl” comes to mind. My relationship with my Dad was a mixed one over the years. I remember my Dad being loving and warm when I was young, but the closeness stopped as I began to grow up. Later in life, Dad again began telling me he loved me and hugging me when he saw me. I have since been told that starting when I was quite young, my Mother was jealous of my relationship with my Dad and in some sick, perverted way thought that he loved me more than he loved her. She had no comprehension that a father’s love for his daughter is different from his love for his wife. And that one does not take away from the other. My Dad had an infinite amount of love to give, but my Mother couldn’t understand it since her love did not extend beyond herself. It took me years to understand that most of what my Dad did was to keep peace with my Mother.

I don’t think I ever doubted that my Dad loved me. But I went through times of questioning how he could allow the things that happened in our house to go on. In some ways, my Dad was the strongest person I knew. And in others, he was very weak. I guess we all have weaknesses, some hidden and some in plain sight. My father’s biggest weakness was always trying to appease my Mother, often at the expense of everyone else.

It has been almost seven years since I sat beside my Dad’s hospital bed and watched him take his last breath. I’m still grieving that loss. Grief hits all of us differently and at different times. It isn’t a quick and easy process and then everything goes back to the way it was. Life is forever changed when we lose a loved one.

I had years to prepare for my Dad’s eventual death, knowing that his health was slowly fading and doing what I could to spend time with him, talk to him and even to share stories and secrets that neither knew about.

My Dad and I used to have long phone conversations while I was driving between Pittsburgh and Columbus for my job. It was a long boring drive and talking to Dad on the hands-free cell made the time go by quicker. It was during one of these conversations that I asked Dad why he had never talked about his childhood, his parents and grandparents and what it was like growing up. I clearly remember his response “It’s really hard to talk about”.

Let me back up and tell you what I remember about my family. My earliest memories include my paternal grandmother. I loved my Grandma and I knew she loved me. My paternal grandfather died a few years before I was born and I remember when we would go to the cemetery to visit his grave and Grandma would sob because she missed him so much. My Grandma loved her family with all her heart. So, you can imagine my confusion when my Dad said it was hard to talk about his family before he had a wife and kids.

On the other side of things, my maternal grandmother also died several years before I was born. And my Mother despised and feared her father – my maternal grandfather. She told many stories about his abuse of her and her siblings. Throughout my childhood, my Mother would go from harboring various brothers and sisters in our house to not talking to those same brothers and sisters over some disagreement. My Mother’s relationships with her family was fraught with drama, anger, fear and other negative emotions.

My Dad was always close with his extended family. We grew up knowing all of our aunts and uncles, great aunts and uncles and cousins. We were always visiting various family, spending time with them, having family picnics and sharing meals. Christmas Eve was a huge celebration with the extended family and we all looked forward to seeing everyone, exchanging gifts and yes, eating a lot of good food.

My Mother was always trying to drive wedges between people. My Grandma lived with us and my Mother threw her out of the house with nowhere to go. The most ironic part of this is that the house we were living in was built by my Dad’s grandfather after he moved to the US from Italy, got a job, saved up his money, bought a piece of land and built the house himself. My Dad’s parents then lived there after his grandparents passed away. My Aunts – my Dad’s sisters – were persuaded to allow my Grandma to sign the house over to my parents with the condition that my Grandma could live there with us for the rest of her life. My Grandma signed the house over to my parents free and clear. The house was paid for and they were given a house for free. And within a few short years my Grandma was out on the street with nowhere to live.

I vividly remember the night it happened. My Mother made dinner for the family and my brothers did not eat all of their dinner. I will say that my mother was not a great cook and for little ones, the meat was often tough and hard to chew and swallow. For context, I was no more than 6 or 7 years old when this happened, and my brothers were about 2 and 4 years old. Because my brothers did not eat their dinner, my mother was sending them to bed hungry. They told my Grandma they were hungry and she took them back downstairs and gave them each a bowl of cereal. My mother flew into a blind rage and told my father that his mother was undermining the way she disciplined her own children and either his mother had to move out or she was going to leave my father and take the kids with her and he would never see them – us -again. My father loved his mother and he loved his children. He didn’t know what to do. So my Grandma came upstairs to the bedroom she and I  shared, washed up and got dressed and packed a bag. I sat on the bed crying so hard I could barely breathe. I still get teary eyed when I think about it. I begged Grandma not to leave. She told me I’d be okay and she would see me soon. I found out recently that my Grandma spent the night in her car because she had nowhere to go and didn’t want to call anyone that late at night. This broke my heart all over again when I heard it.

I have drawn closer to my Dad’s family since he passed away. I get together and talk with my aunts and cousins. I’m hearing stories about what it was like when my Dad and his sisters were growing up. Stories of a loving family. Of extended family all gathering at the house. Of teenage friends all congregating at my grandparent’s house. Stories of my Grandma being the fun aunt. Of the love and respect cousins all have for my late grandparents. Of cousins staying at the house for extended periods of time and going on vacation to the beach with the family. These are the things that were too hard for my Dad to talk about.

I’ve come to realize that he couldn’t talk about having a fun, loving family and a happy childhood because it enraged my mother. She somehow thought it took away from his life with her if he talked lovingly about the family that she wasn’t a part of and didn’t like. My mother was extremely jealous of anyone who had anything that she didn’t have. So my Dad couldn’t talk about his life before her because my mother believed it took something away from his life with her.

I now know that my Dad grew up in a loving home where his Dad died far too young. I know that my Dad had friends and yes even girlfriends before meeting my mother. I know that my Dad and his cousins were very close and grew up together. They got in trouble as teenage boys tend to sometimes do. And they had a lot of fun together. And I know all those friends and cousins loved my grandparents, loved hanging out at their house and enjoyed pizza on a Saturday night when my Grandma was cooking.

It comforts me to know that my Dad had a happy life before my mother came into the picture. I know that he did what he could to stay close to his family as time went on. He helped us to grow up with our cousins as well.

But it saddens me to know what a hard life he had. Our decisions all have consequences. My Dad was an honorable and good man. He worked hard to try to support his family. Unfortunately, one of his biggest decisions came with the consequence that in addition to my mother robbing him of his memories of a happy life before her, she also spent him into a lifetime of debt. My father didn’t like confrontation and continued to allow my mother to take care of the finances for their entire life together even though he had to know that it was because of her reckless spending that they were unable to pay their bills and were hopelessly in debt to the very end. And even beyond the grave the debt continued. The house that my great grandfather built is now no longer owned by the family and is in foreclosure and will be sold.

While it saddens me that the house that was in the family for generations is no longer physically owned by the family, the memories had in that house never need fade away. The house doesn’t necessarily hold the same sentimentality for me that it did for the generations before me. Because I had mixed experiences there. There was a lot of bad and there was some good as well. I always knew my Dad loved me. But he had to not show affection to me for fear of my mother’s anger. I’m happy that I’ve lived long enough to finally hear the stories of my Dad’s youth. And to appreciate that they were good times for him. And I’ve come to understand how important family is to me. That’s a lesson I learned from Dad and am so happy it stuck with me.

My mother did manage to drive wedges between me and my brothers. I cannot change that. I don’t know if there will ever come a time when we will be a family again. And I know that this would make my Dad very sad indeed. But I cannot change how my brothers feel. They are harboring a lifetime of rhetoric that my mother told them that they are holding inside and are unable to see through. I hold no grudge against them, hope that they both do well in their lives and perhaps someday they will come to understand how important family is as well. Until then I can only go on with my life and continue to enjoy the family that I have. I have learned to say “I love you” easily, to hug those who are important to me, and to listen closely to all the stories that my family has to tell. I didn’t know what I was missing until I started hearing those stories. Now I can’t get enough of them. I’m finally able to understand where and who I come from. I feel like I’m part of a big happy family who loves each other and cares for each other. And I know that’s what my Dad learned as a child and knew all his life. I have some peace knowing that nothing anybody did could ever take those memories away from my Dad.

I love you Dad. I’ve always loved you. And I miss you. I miss our long conversations. I miss picking up the phone and asking you a question. Or getting your opinion on something. And I hope you are with everyone who has gone on before you and that every day is a heavenly celebration.

So today, on Father’s Day, I wish my Dad a Happy Heavenly Father’s Day.