One year ago, I re-met my dad.
Well, technically, second time meeting him in 3 years.
He picked me up from my mom’s house to grab coffee in his white SUV, listening to some of his 90s rock music. We arrived at this local coffee shop called Station 3, 30 minutes away from home. I ordered the sweetest drink on the menu, some caramel-vanilla-whatever, and he ordered three espresso shots. He talked about his job and things I didn’t really understand, like finances that he has to do in his job. In the back of my head I couldn’t help but think, why hasn’t he asked about my life yet?
After a long car ride of looping around my neighborhood — I guess he wanted to spend more time with me — it was time for him to drop me off.
Before dropping me off, my dad asked, “Will I see you again?”
***
Casey’s pizza slices for dinner, his sculptures from old art classes comfortably cluttered in the house, teaching us how to paint on canvas in the basement floor; this was life at my dad’s growing up. His nickname for me was Ladi Dadi, and he would play the intro to the song “La-Di-Da-Di” by Doug E. Fresh and sing it to me. My parents got divorced when I was in third grade. I still got to see my sisters, and my parents had 50/50 custody. At his house, we swam in the pool in our backyard, ate donuts for breakfast, watched movies as a family on Friday nights — mainly Marvel movies — and ate sloppy joes for dinner. It was home.
It’s a very blurry line between when I was close with my dad and when I wasn’t. Maybe it was when I grew my own opinions and turned 12.
I guess little arguments over time grew. They became larger, about bigger issues, like politics. Most of the time those arguments weren’t even about us. Looking back, we were pretty dramatic. We yelled a lot. I was dealing with lots of emotions and taking them out on my dad. I wasn’t eating, so my brain wouldn’t process everything properly, and I was more irritable. I didn’t have many friends because I transferred to a different district in middle school. I was alone.
One day, my dad picked me up from school and dropped me off at moms to pick up my ballet stuff.
I decided I didn’t wanna go back in the car.
So, I ran up to my room, locked the door and started panicking.
My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. I kept declining his calls. My mom was on the other side of the door, trying to convince me to go.
“Mom, please don’t make me.”
My mom didn’t want to get in trouble, so for legal reasons, she tried her best to get me back into his car.
But I didn’t want to go back over there. I didn’t like the way my siblings and I were being treated, and when I would challenge that, suddenly I was “disrespectful.” My opinions were taken as controversial. Whenever my sister, Noa, wanted to dress the way she felt comfortable in, like shorts and masculine clothes. He would have her wear dresses and bows.
I was fed up.
I distinctly remember what happened the last day I was in dads car.
I’m in 7th grade and we were on our way to school, once again, arguing.
He caught me recording the conversation. I wanted to be heard, because for years I was told that I was being over dramatic, and overreacting, and I just wanted someone to listen to what I was experiencing. So, I recorded.
We both got very upset, and the fight escalated. Things got physical. The moment I got out of that car, I knew I didn’t wanna go back. I sent the recording of the conversation to my lawyer, and it was official. Under my terms, I did not have to see him again.
***
It’s hard when you don’t remember things your dad does and how he acts. So one day, about a year ago, I got coffee with my uncle about how I wanted to rekindle the relationship with my dad. At that point I had forgotten what his voice sounds like. That in itself, bothered me.
“I love you.”
“I miss you.”
“Wanna go out for coffee?”
A few times a week, I get these messages from my dad.
No apologies, though.
It took a lot of courage to see my dad again. He texted me, asking if I would be open to go to a pottery café. Eventually, I said yes.
Four years have gone by, and I believe both my dad and I have changed as people.
I texted him a few days ago, asking to call about this story, and it went very well. I expected us to not get along, but I was surprised by his softness and openness to talking about things we put each other through.
It felt like I was talking to a different person.
I decided it’d be best to talk with him versus talking about him.
A few weeks after pottery, we went out for that cup of coffee.
After my dad dropped me off from coffee he asked if I’d see him again.
I paused.
“Yes, yes, I’ll see you again.”
