Grieving While Estranged

My father in the grey suit, yours truly in the middle, my mother in the sassy red blazer, with our godson and his wonderful mother. I think I was nine or ten here, judging by the terrible haircut.

My father was a good man, though he had many faults. I’m probably describing 90% of the world’s population, but it’s the first line that comes to mind when I think about him. He was at least partially responsible for the person that I am today, and, for that, I will always be grateful. I will always thank him for the good, the bad and the horrible.

Last year, he died. Though we all saw it coming eventually, it still blindsided me. I’d only seen him once, the month before, after seven years. Yes, seven years. In order for you to better understand my mindset now, I need to give you a speck of personal history. I promise it won’t be boring. Bear with me.

The First Twenty Years

I was always daddy’s little girl. His only child, and my mother’s second. I grew up being worshipped by my father, though that took a dark turn after I turned twelve. By all accounts, we were, for a long time, a somewhat normal and healthy middle-class family. But my father’s alcoholism eventually oozed out and festered, infecting everything in its path.

Combined with untameable pride and titanic stubbornness, it was a recipe for disaster. It came in episodes, most of which I didn’t notice until I was the only kid left in the house. Maybe it was because my brother had taken most of the brunt, or maybe it was because I grew up and was able…