I made up with my dad in December. After 7 years of not speaking.
I stopped talking to him around the time I got married.
I had finally entered a good relationship and felt happy and supported. I realized that staying in touch with my dad was damaging to my self-esteem. That I had maintained the relationship to make him feel better. Ignoring all the times he hadn't been there for me. The times I had needed him and he couldn't show up. Accepting less than I deserved. I asked him to please stop contacting me. That it wasn't fair to me to pretend that him and I were cool.
But the holidays are something else. I never realized how many holidays there are until I became a parent. The pressure to bring joy to your little ones, capture memories, plan meals, consult with family, pay for everything, and carry it out. Reyes, Easter, Memorial Day, summer vacation, 4th of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years'.
This past Christmas, which happens to be my dad's birthday, I thought back to one Christmas when he had visited me, some 30 years ago.
I was nine years old. My mom had remarried and we had just moved to Tijuana from Upstate New York. My dad was still single, living in Mexico City, forced to accept that we had moved on without him. For real this time. My mom was expecting a new baby.
Usually I visited him for Christmas, but since we were in the same country now, he came to visit me instead. When he went to take a shower I peeked in his luggage to find a bunch of toys, barbies, and even a portable tv he had packed and would later pretend Santa had brought me. I remember feeling so loved. Back then I was his only kid. He was legit obsessed with me. He had made the effort, the trip, the shopping, the packing, all of it, to surprise me, and give me that memory. He is extremely detail oriented. Always picked me up with flowers at the airport. Always took me to the best pozole places when I visited. Always bought me clothes. He made the best of every moment we had together, once, or twice a year. Before he remarried, and made a new family. And stopped visiting.
By the next year he moved on. He met Apolonia. And all my pictures came down from his wall. I remember that hurt. The shrine he had built to me and my mom. I could understand my mom's pictures coming down. But mine? I remember hoping he'd break up with his new girlfriend. I even hung up on her one time, to make them fight.
Me and my dad in his office. Around 3rd grade. Before I moved to Tijuana. Behind us you can see a drawing of a building he helped design, an Arby's in Plaza Galerías. He is an architect. Extremely talented. That Minnie Mouse backpack he must have bought me on one of my visits home, when I lived in Ithaca.
I didn't realize at the time, that he was a person too. Not just my dad. That he wanted a life too. To have a family again. And he deserved one.
The next year they were married. And the year after that, they had their first child together.
Back to the present. My husband, daughter, and I spent last Christmas with my mom in Tijuana, where we opened presents, took pictures, and ate bacalao and romeritos. Because my husband is vegan, my mom made two versions of each, one for him and one for everyone else. This time my mom and I put all the effort, her making the dinner, buying us gifts, giving us money, and decorating her home. Me dressing up, taking my family, and entertaining my kid. It was a beautiful day. I was grateful for my family, for my mom, for another year together.
Then as we drove home I started bawling, remembering that it was my dad's birthday, and that he too had loved me once. A lot. Even if things had changed.
I thought back to that Christmas 30 years ago when he had put so much effort into visiting me.
I reached out via WhatsApp, wishing him a happy birthday, and sharing a picture of me and my daughter.
He had loved me once. And that was good enough.
He was really happy to hear from me and shared a picture of himself, looking a lot older than the last time we saw each other.
I took all that anger off my back and let it go. I felt lighter.
I wanted to talk to him, catch up, let him know stuff that had hurt me. Make amends. And ask questions.
I wanted to understand why he had let me leave him when I was four. The same age my daughter is now. Why he agreed to let my mom take me away from him to a whole other country. I couldn't comprehend it by present day standards.
Me with my dad and two cousins, at the Mexico City airport. They were bidding us farewell, when my mom and I left to Ithaca. I was four.
The thought of my husband letting me take our daughter, or of me letting him take her away, to a whole other country, at such a tender age, made me sick to my stomach.
I can only imagine what it must have felt like for him. To have your heart ripped out from you. What he must have felt like when I left.
I didn't get it.
Then in April there was a big eclipse. I saw a meme on Facebook about another big eclipse that had happened in 1991. I had been with my dad for that one, in Tepic, on a work project. It was summer and my mom had sent me to stay with him. I was seven. He took me to Puerto Vallarta, where him and my mom had spent their honeymoon once. I was his world. We were best buddies. We ate a lot of Pollo Loco that summer. All the news about the eclipse reminded me again, that I was loved once. A lot!
I reached out again. Hey let's talk. He said sure, let me get emotionally ready. He was nervous.
I didn't have any more questions. I figured out what must have happened.
I realized it was unfair to judge his actions by present day standards. To compare my situation with his. Our opportunities were different. Our circumstances. The lessons learned. The way people think about blended families today. How people have learned to co-parent and get along. For the sake of the kids.
Maybe back then, in 1989, people didn't know much about child psychology. Or any psychology. Maybe they didn't know that kids need their dads. Maybe people who grew up with dads didn't realize the important role they played. Took it for granted.
Maybe economic need was more top of mind. Providing. Or failing to provide for one's family. The economic crisis. Opportunities in the US. Even if it meant separation. Maybe he didn't think we would stay here long. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he didn't come because he didn't want to start over from scratch, professionally. I don't know. Maybe he messed up. Maybe my mom was right to leave. Who knows.
Maybe when my mom remarried, and this time an American, he thought it was over. That I had a new dad he couldn't compete with. That I didn't need him. Or was better off. Or maybe he thought that he had nothing to offer me.
Or maybe it was too painful. His failure or inability to stop any of it. To keep his family.
Maybe he thought that it would be better to focus on his own survival and happiness. That we were fine without him. That he should pour all his love and energy into a family that would never leave him. That my mom and I were never coming back and it was time to move on.
When we finally talked I explained: Look I can't completely understand how you let me leave, it must have been very hard for you. I can only imagine now that I am a mother myself. But I want you to know that I always needed you. And losing you, for whatever the reason, was incredibly hard. It hardened me. It made me angry. It even made me bitter. Cold. Mistrustful. Jealous.
And now that I'm a parent, I know that you loved me a lot. And that parents are people too. And I don't want to be angry with you. You deserved to move on. You deserved to be happy. But you also need to know that I wasn't better off without you. That you were always important to me.
And now I'm good. I have my kid and I have my husband. And I'm grateful that we didn't have to go through what you did.
I'm glad you moved on. And it really hurt. But I get it now. It was never about me. It was about you. Because you're a person too. Not just my dad.
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