“I want something from Daddy that he is not able to give me . . . . It is only that I long for Daddy’s real love: not only as his child, but for me — Anne, myself.” — Anne Frank, from The Diary of a Young Girl
Last week, I received a short note from my father. It had been months since we had talked on the phone.
The note said, “Hello Sharie, Just a short note that I Love You. I realize my actions of the past have caused some doubt. For 66 years Mom was my pride and Joy. I miss her. Your car is still in the parking lot. Someday we will have to talk about it. Best Wishes and Love Dad.”
The car my father is referring to is a 2014 Kia Sol that he never drives anymore. Because my Subaru Forester is 20 years old, I have in the past expressed interest in buying it from him. He says yes, and then changes his mind. He says okay, then changes his mind. He says . . . you get my point.
When I opened the envelope and read my father’s first handwritten sentence, my heart opened. Then the next sentence in which he apologized. My heart soared. Then “For 66 years . . .” — I was 66 years old, he was going to say something about ME! Then I read the rest of his note. It broke my heart. Yesterday morning, I sent him a hand-written reply which I copied into my journal:
Dear Dad — thank you for your note. I really like receiving (and writing) old-fashioned letters.
I also appreciate your acknowledgment of your “actions in the past,” though I have never doubted that you love me. What I have doubted is how much of the “pride and joy” you credited to Mom for 66 years you ever credited to me — or any of your daughters. Was I — were any of us — ever your pride and joy? You have known me for 66 years. You’ve never said and/or written so.
I miss Mom, too. I am still so sad that she never really got to know me, or me, her. But there is still time for us, Dad. I want more than the car that is still in the parking lot. I want to know the Dad who owns the car. Can we talk about that someday?
I will love you forever, Sharon June
I read it to Adrienne and she told me that I was going to be disappointed. I read it to my oldest sister and she said, “That’s so heartfelt. Dad won’t reply the way you want him to, but what do you have to lose?”
After I sealed the envelope, I walked to the nearest mailbox, pulled down the handle and watched my letter disappear.
I have read your post three times so far and still cannot find adequate words to respond. However, I’ll try. The first thing I felt after reading this was deep regret that I didn’t stand up for you while we were growing up and even into my young adulthood. I am truly sorry. The pride and joy I received as a child was very conditional, but I believe that you didn’t even receive conditional pride and joy. That makes me very sad. I also feel angry. There is no room for any of the bullshit from the past to be continuing today. Dad acknowledges his actions from the past, but I still don’t thinks he gets it. Your letter to Dad is very loving, gentle and straight from the heart. I admire you for that. I don’t know if I experienced everything that you have that I would be able to write such a letter. Sharie, again, I am very sorry. I love you very much and am so grateful that we have been able to become true sisters.
Merrie Lee — let go of the regret. Please. It weighs you down, and wish I could just toss it away for you.
In many ways, you have more to overcome. It’s much easier to let go of pride and joy you never received than it is to let go of something you know you received conditionally. You’re kind of trained to believe ANY pride and joy from ANYONE is conditional and not the real thing. That’s truly awful.
I wonder if I’ll hear from Dad at all which is probably the worst response he could have. I’d rather that he just called me and said, “I never want to speak to you again because of the things you said about Mom.” He is a sad, spineless man who will die never having realized that his daughters loved him not for what he did, but in spite of who he was. I’ll never forget the time he told me that the saddest day of his life was when their dog, Gypsy, was euthanized. This was AFTER the death of his daughter and our sister, Karen.
No, he will never get it.
You continue to be an amazing miracle to me. You embody love and compassion and tenderness and sweetness and such genuine care. How does your body/spirit live from such a grace-filled beautiful core? I do not know whether your Father will ever be able to respond in the way that you deserve. And I am so very sad that you may never hear his genuine love in this world. However I give thanks that you have become such a beautiful soul aware person. I am so grateful you are in my life.
Charlotte — thank you for naming what you see. I don’t see grace-filled beauty in myself all that often, but there must be enough there to keep me reaching out. Of course, for about four decades, it’s meant the world to me that when I’ve reached out, you’ve always taken my hand. That too, of course, keeps me reaching out. xoxo