He called sometimes. I let it go to voicemail. He’d say things like “I love you” and “I’m sorry” and “One day you’ll understand.”
I didn’t want to understand. I wanted a father who showed up.
For eight years, I barely spoke to him. When my mom called and said he was dying, I almost didn’t go.
But I went. Not for him. For my mom.
He was in the hospital. Lung cancer. He looked like a skeleton with skin. The man who’d seemed so powerful on that bike was drowning in a hospital gown.
He tried to talk to me. I sat in the chair and gave him nothing.
“There’s things you don’t know,” he said.
“I know enough.”
He died two days later. I didn’t cry.
After the funeral, my mom asked me to clean out his garage. She couldn’t do it.
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