I hate my dad

This is a weird way to start a fathers day post. But I hate my dad. I don't know him but I hate him. All these years later.

My dad died when I was five years old. So that is 36 years ago. A little kid needs a dad. Don't get me wrong my mom did an amazing job raising me and my brother. But there was something missing.

Between my mom and eventually myself, thousands of dollars and countless hours have been spent in therapists offices, trying to convince me that he didn't leave me on purpose. My logical mind knows that. No one gets cancer on purpose. Fuck cancer. But there is that little kid who doesn't understand why he doesn't have a dad. That sweet little kid turned bitter. A part of his innocence is buried under a stone that has the name we share. The name I share with my son.

We used to go to that grave frequently. But since I was twelve, I have only been there twice. Once before I got married. I was so mad that he didn't get to meet my wife. I stood there staring at that cold stone. Staring it down. And once when we were all in that cemetery burying one of my aunts.

I'm under no illusion that he would be alive today as he would be pushing 100. But if I had a few more years, I might miss him fondly instead of hating him.
I hate that we did not get to know each other.

I hate that he still makes me upset.

I hate that he never gave me advice that I could pass on.

I hate that he didn't get to meet Ani and Olivia and little Niel (who is not named after him).

I hate that I didn't have the one thing I really wanted.

I hate that there are only pictures. None if which hang in my apartment.

I hate that the only good memory I have is of him is some potatoes au gratin.

I don't blame him for my short comings. I got those and all my good features without him.

I wish I had a few more years with him. I wish I remembered what he sounded like. But since I don't have that. There is just the hate.

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