My Fucking Father likes to walk away from things, literally. Being nice about it, he's shy. Really, though, he's an asshole who makes his unhappiness known by leaving a situation he doesn't want to physicall be in, no matter the embarrassment he brings on himself or the people with him. I remember him walking away after the end of my college graduation ceremony once he found out that I indeed got a degree in journalism. He walked away and kept to himself when my sister brought over her guy friends to visit and crash at home. And he walked away and back into his room when my Grandmother had an episode and the paramedics came to my house.
I was certain he was going to continue his juvenile behavior when my sister's boyfriend came over to visit. He already expressed his disapproval (read: yelled at her over the phone) when she broke the news that she planned to live with him in Europe. There could be many typical father reasons for hating this idea: She's his daughter, she's going to be a continent away, he doesn't know how this guy is, he's white, etc. My Dad, no, he's different. In fact, deep down, I don't know the real reason why he's so upset. And one of the most infuriating about being under his thumb is that he never tells anybody why he's so upset. Being pissed off is fine. But it's important -- and, you know, responsible -- if you would tell someone why you're so pissed off with him. My Father has rarely done that. So I'm left guessing what he's thinking -- typical passive-aggressive bullshit I need to stop doing. (Just for you readers: I'll posit the theory that he is angry with my sister because her plans were not the plans he envisioned for her. What they were ... again, that's something he failed to articulate to her.)
I was right -- he was the asshole I expected him to be. After an obligatory (and, I'm guessing, limp) handshake when the boyfriend wanted to meet him for the first time, he immediately went to open the front door to start the car because we were eating dinner. I had to coax him back up -- nicely, of course; my God, we have guests in our house! -- so the boyfriend could show him the greeting gifts he gave our parents. (He was owed that. Shit, he was paying for dinner.) And naturally he avoided talking to him directly.
Nonetheless, my sister's boyfriend, who was told about the possibility of being frozen out, pressed on anyway because they believed it was the right thing to do. The night before they were to leave and never come back again, he cornered my father and asked his blessing for his daughter's hand in marriage. Most fathers would give that blessing. If you don't really want to, I say tell him straight to his face that you're not going to get it. But not My Fucking Father. No, in his imminently destructive, pissy, wishy-washy way, he said something to the effect of, "Well, you're an adult, she's an adult, I can't tell you what you can do, you know?" And he smiled that shit-eating grin, like he always does in telling someone off. Father, you're not fooling anybody. I had to force him to shake his hand.
We were so scared about our parents' reaction to him that he didn't stay at our house the whole weekend. Once we knew he locked himself in his room in a house far, far away, my sister wanted to talk to our dad. He conspicuously was using the house desktop with the door closed, something he never does unless he wants to avoid something. But the coast was clear of anyone not foreign, so he made a beeline to the master bed, where my sister was waiting. She called out to him: "Dad?"
Before he shut the door on us, he said, "Your dad's dead."
My sister ran upstairs crying the last of her dozen cries that weekend.
God, My Fucking Father is such a cruel, pathetic prick.
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