My Dad

The first Christmas after the divorce my Dad gave me a pair of ice skates that were much two big. He promised to return them for the right size and bring the skates the following week. I couldn’t risk it. I hid in the closet clutching my skates and refused to come out until he promised not to take them away. I was sure the store would not have the same pair with the powder blue checks and furry strip on top of the boot. I couldn’t bear to lose any more of him.

Go-Go married her BF, Roger, in 1969. They went away one weekend and returned with a diamond on her finger. She was radiant. I was crushed. I vowed to hate Roger for as long as I lived. Living in our apartment in Madison with Go-Go and Roger, I ached for my Dad.

Dad visited us in Madison every Sunday and took us up north to Phillips to visit his Mom every holiday. His dedication to us made me so happy, and so sad. I would imagine him being alone and make myself sick with sadness. I would think about him eating alone, shopping alone, watching television alone and living alone, all things he so recently did with us. I used to get sad before he visited because I would anticipate his leaving at the end of the day. Sundays were always sad days. I loved him desperately and at the end of the visit, he dropped us off and left.

In the beginning there were car loads of kids going off on adventures with him-my siblings, our friends, he never said no - but by the time I was in high school it was frequently just my little brother and I. Those trips were some of the most precious to me because I would have him mostly to myself. We would talk about everything-politics, the educational system, his family, how cars operate, and my favorite, what happened to him in World War II when his plane was shot down over Normandy.

He told me I was smart and I should use my brains. Encouraged me by calling me college material. Go-Go taught me to clean and cook so I could get and keep a man, but my Dad insisted that I get a career, and then worry about marriage and all that. He helped me get my first apartment at sixteen, sent me money when I went to college, and most importantly, wrote me a letter every week, without fail. His letters were never scolding, despite how often I was failing at the things I set out to do. He died when I was twenty six, at a time in my life when I was too screwed up to properly say goodbye.

He'd been dead twelve years when I learned he wasn't actually my Dad. I was visiting Go-Go that summer and she woke me up at three in the morning, inebriated. “Diane, we have to talk.” I was now sober enough and old enough to realize this was likely the thing she had been trying to tell me my whole life. But why now? I was thirty five years old and suddenly I felt so trapped in this hideous childhood dynamic. She went on, “Now I know for sure, I mean, I’ve always known, but I didn’t know absolutely.” “Oh Diane, when I saw you walk off that plane it was so obvious". “You know honey, Roger is your father.”

Her words exploded in my heart, or maybe my stomach, because I jumped out of bed and puked.