dad

My father left when I was six and never stopped leaving. At school events, scheduled visits, personal lows, I scanned the crowd for his face and didn’t find it. I grew used to his absence and started to resent the appearances he made; when he did show up, I’d wish he hadn’t. At my college graduation, he parted with the gift, “I’m glad you’re not a fuck up like me,” turning my achievements into his own deluded, narcissistic pursuit of sympathy. He at least — and unwittingly — stumbled upon a truth: I succeeded despite his example and influence. Never because of it.