Dad’s Favorite

It was my 25th birthday, so I invited my parents to come celebrate.

I grew up with the most bland of foods. That’s what my dad liked. An extra grain of salt and he would rant. Spices, especially Garlic was sinful and led to rage. Chocolate was almost a daily part of our diet, because it was his favorite. Dad ruled and there was never any question of that. Mom would remind me to be tactful. Meaning I was required to cower, quietly, and of course, seething.

So, even though it was my birthday, and I was definitely an adult, I cooked a meal I hoped would please him. Or at the least, not set him off. Then we came to dessert. I had baked, from scratch naturally, a chocolate cake. He took a bite. He began raging, yelling. He was downright rude. My sin? I had put a drop of mint in the frosting. Well any idiot would know he didn’t like mint. Never mind it was my birthday.

My idiocy was in trying to please a man I could never please. And oh how I tried to please. I adored the man as a child. And oddly enough, he occasionally would find ways to let me know he found me special. He would give me a gift. (and presents were my mom’s department and always practical like underwear. ) His were always things I was longing for, but had never told anyone about. How did he do that?

By my high school years he was determined to control me. He would set ridiculous rules that were impossible to keep, and didn’t I know it. I learned how to be sneaky. And, in my rebellion, did a few things I was lucky to live through. Oh how I hated him. I had lost all respect for him. His black moods were a heavy dreary cloud in our lives. Yet we all tried to soothe the tyrant, or better yet avoid him. When I was 17 he insisted we talk. I refused. I wasn’t allowed to go out until I did. When I finally gave in, he told me that he knew I didn’t think he loved me. He actually loved me in a special way. But! I was the one who reminded him most of himself. He was only trying to keep me from making the same mistakes he had made. I can’t even express how angry that made me. It was my life. He had no right to try to live it for me. And even at that young age, I knew his own self hatred got misdirected towards me .

My first mistake had been being born a girl. They already had a perfectly good girl. And I mean perfect and I mean good. She was popular, she was witty, she was clever. She knew how to charm. She could do no wrong. Or rather, devious enough to rarely get caught. And here I was, a wild child . A daydreamer. They didn’t know I was magical. It really didn’t interest them. I didn’t interest them. So I daydreamed. I ran the streets. I climbed trees. I played. I made up magical stories I never wrote down. I traveled to other realms. I was a mystic. They never suspected because they never listened.

And so I spent decades recovering that beautiful little Wild Child. Alternating between trying to win my parents love in ever so creative ways, and distancing from them to regain my sanity and remember I really am lovable. When my Dad got cancer, I put my whole life on hold. I slept in a chair at the hospital for weeks. When he finally came home I spent all my weekends and vacation time with them. Before he died he apologized for how he had treated me. “ That wasn’t right of me.” Yet he never failed to remind me my sister was still his favorite.

I’m going to have a piece of chocolate cake with mint frosting now. I’m allergic to it so I hope it doesn’t kill me. Dad communicates just fine from the other side and he’s really sweet now, so I’m not ready to join him.