For years, I have had a bit of a shell around me which hasn't really allowed me to think much about my father.  I guess you could say there is a lot of water under the bridge. A wall or two. Some denial, perhaps. Oh, I suppose there were a few moments of anger. I remember once, as I was driving to work a few years ago, becoming suddenly overcome with rage. Out of the blue, not even thinking about him, I suddenly started screaming "I hate you!". I screamed till my throat was sore. I parked my car. Wiped my face and went into work. And it was just another day once again. 

When I was 18, my parents divorced. My father and I were separated from that time forward. He was lost to me then. Just like that. 

My mother had left him after 28 years of marriage.  Not just up and left him. No, there was plenty behind that leaving. There were whole lives behind that leaving. Babies, little boys, teenagers, houses, bicycles, tears, flowers, first cars, fun and some not so fun.

 I was the youngest of us at 18 at the time. Three older brothers who pretty much scattered. Living their lives. Making their mistakes.  Doing their thing. 

 I still needed my mom though. And I think she needed me. I stayed with her while I tried to decide what I was going to do with my life.  A couple of years later, circumstances required that she move far away for family support. 

And so, I was on my own. I tried to maintain a relationship with my father. I did, somewhat, at first, although it was never the same.  I tried to keep my brothers in contact with our dad. I didn't want my dad to think....I don't know what...I didn't want him to think we didn't care about him anymore. He had remarried less than a year after the divorce. While we all made at least some attempts at first to stay in contact with him, it became harder and harder to do so. We were all faced with his new wife, who wanted nothing to do with the four of us. Nor did she want him to have anything to do with us.

She was a vile creature who did her best to keep us away. She got her way indeed. It seemed she had him wrapped around her evil little finger...I couldn't understand why he let it happen. Neither could my brothers. But it did. He let us be pushed away. 

It became harder to want to keep trying. I did my best, but my life went on. I went to nursing school, got married, had my children. Contact with my dad was less and less. Though he never lived more than 20 miles from me in the next twenty years, it was rare we visited. It got to where neither my husband nor I wanted to see him if his wife was there.

My dad was always friendly to me, and told me he loved me but after the divorce, we were never close again. I wasn't a daddy's girl before the divorce, by any means, but what we did have ended.  I felt guilty for so long for our relationship fading away. I guess because I was just young and dumb and always thought my father would love me.  He never made an effort to maintain a relationship with me or my three brothers. Or his six grandchildren. Or eventually the two great-grandchildren.

It eventually it came down to I would call him on Father's Day and Christmas, maybe his birthday. It became agonizing to talk myself into picking up the phone to call him that once or twice a year. I would lock myself in my bedroom and try to work up the nerve to call him. I would make myself sick in the days before I made that call. My husband would beg me to just get it over with, so we could get back to normal.  Maybe once a year or two, I'd meet him for lunch. He met my oldest son about  4 or 5 times, I don't really remember, and my youngest son, maybe 3 times. When my oldest was about 5 and figuring out relations, he asked me "Hey, mom - who's your dad?" I tried to explain who he was was, but he never could figure out who I meant.

Six years ago, when my boys were age 4 and 9, my dad called to tell me that he had cancer. It was in his lungs and brain by then. He was certain he would fight it, but I knew better. 

I took my boys to see him. I wanted them to at least see him before he got too sick. It was awkward for everyone. I looked at him, knowing he was going to die, and I just couldn't feel much except sorry for him. He did okay for awhile. I went to visit him a few more times. I did what I felt I needed to do. 

The day came when his wife called me to tell me he wasn't doing well and "you'd better get your brothers to see him before he dies".  Well, we did. My mother, my children, my brothers came to see him. We gathered around his bed in the hospital room, all six of us, together for the last time. My mom said a prayer, and he said, in a muffled voice through his oxygen mask "We're all together again".  He died a few days later at a different hospital. She got wind of us all being there and made sure we couldn't find him, so she moved him. And she didn't have a funeral. She didn't want us there.

The obituary said that he left behind her two children, who he helped raise, and one grand-daughter, (his step-granddaughter) - the "love of his life". And four children from a previous marriage. 

And that was that.