Like Father
Twenty minutes away can feel like a lifetime
Last week was my father’s birthday.
I called him, wished him a happy birthday, made a basic joke about his age, and asked how he was doing — after all, the man is undergoing cancer treatment.
“If you need anything, let me know,” I said before hanging up.
The call lasted just over two minutes.
The last time I saw my father was in early December, on my mother’s birthday — almost two months ago. It’s probably worth mentioning that my parents live twenty minutes away.
It’s hard to write this. Even harder knowing that, in a few years, the regret may hurt much more. But my greatest fear is that it won’t hurt that much — and what that might say about me.
I was never very close to my family. Maybe as a child, until I was eleven or twelve — exactly my son’s age now. The cyclical nature of this terrifies me.
My father wasn’t very present in my life. Partly because he worked abroad for several years during my first decade in this world, but also because of his personality. He never had much of a knack for children. Now that I think about it, neither do I. I treat any child as if they were a teenager. I think that’s the lowest age range I can truly interact with.
I don’t have many memories of him from that time.
I remember watching football matches lying in bed, my head resting on his chest.
And I remember a Christmas when he gave me a Bart Simpson keychain, along with an apology for not being able to give me more because he didn’t have money, but promising it would be the last year that happened.
That broken promise is also part of my inheritance. I’ve used it almost as many times as the number of Christmases I’ve spent as an adult.
I remember telling him I liked the present. I also remember the sadness and frustration in his eyes. I think I already understood what he felt back then. Today, I feel it in my veins. And it isn’t pretty.
We never talked much.
The fingers of one hand are more than enough to count the father–son conversations we had. I think we both felt uncomfortable in those situations.
Once, when I was already a teenager, I spent the day traveling with him to the capital, where he was going to take part in one of those general knowledge TV shows — which he won, by the way, since he’s one of the most cultured people I’ve ever known.
What I remember most about that trip is the long silences during the miles of highway. Hours.
At lunch, he tried the kind of questions a father asks a teenage son: what I wanted to do, plans for the future, whether I had a girlfriend.
“No, I don’t like anyone, and I want to focus on football.”
A stupid lie. I dreamed of having a girlfriend but was too shy to try. And I already knew I wouldn’t get far in football.
When I was fourteen, I broke a finger playing handball — my first and last official match. I got home and had to ask my father to take me to the hospital. It was early evening, the hospital was short-staffed, and we stayed there for a few hours. That made him miss a football match on TV. He was very upset. I think with me too.
A couple of years later, I badly sprained my ankle playing football and once again had to ask him to take me to the hospital — another missed match on TV.
“For fuck’s sake, play tennis or something where you don’t get hurt!”
He wasn’t joking.
The only time he ever hit me was when my bicycle was left behind his car — something I’d been warned not to do. When he needed to leave, he reversed and ran into the bike. He slapped me in the face.
I never told him it had been my sister who moved the bike and left it there. That would have hit him like a thousand slaps.
I’m very much like my father. For better and for worse. We share physical traits, personality, and flaws. He knows it too. Maybe that’s why we never needed to be very present in each other’s lives to know that, if needed, we’d be there.
We’re not the caring type.
We’re the type who solves problems when they arise — and then moves on.
I never talked about this with him. I know I don’t need to.
The last fifteen years have been hard on my father. The subprime crisis in 2008 irreversibly affected the company he had built and that had supported our family for years since the turn of the millennium. He lost everything he had built. That comfortable life disappeared. The family that once worked together went its separate ways. His authority faded. His usefulness vanished with the closing of the company.
I know exactly how he feels. The powerlessness in the face of reality. The regret over mistakes made. The nostalgia for better days. The frustration of watching the balloon of one’s potential deflate. I know this because I’ve felt like this many times.
I can’t help thinking that, despite the distance, I ended up walking paths my father had already walked — paths that could lead me to the same destination. I therefore have an obligation to change direction.
I have the chance to see the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and, like Ebenezer Scrooge, wake up a different man. But unlike A Christmas Carol, I can also bring some light to that ghost— not just learn from it.
I don’t have a single photo with my father. There must be several, but I haven’t laid eyes on them in decades. Changing that would be a good place to start. And something that would bring me comfort.
I know my father will never read this. That’s probably why I’m writing it.
But I’ll end with what, to me as a father, is as important as being loved by a child: admiration.
I admire my father for everything he achieved in life, becoming a cultured and respected man, despite coming from poverty and growing up an orphan.
I admire him for having fought his way through life and achieved success, even if things later went wrong.
I admire him for loving animals and caring for them so deeply.
I admire him for staying true to his values and for standing in front of the bullets to protect his family as best he could.
I admire him for, even in financially difficult times, managing to create happy family moments — and for building a library that introduced me to the world of books.
I admire my father, flaws and all.
And I want nothing more than that from my son: that one day he may be able to list the reasons why he admires me.
I believe the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come will help me get there.
What’s Soaking:
✍️ Started journaling at the beginning of the year and I’m surprised by the positive impact it’s had on my days.
🎧 I’m about 80% deep into The Brothers Karamazov, by Dostoyevsky (audiobook). It’s quietly becoming my favorite novel of all time.
📓 My wife made me a leather traveler’s notebook, and now I carry it everywhere, jotting down all sorts of stuff and ideas. Brilliant.
Thank you for sharing ♥️
You needed to write this. Proud of you.