I have to resign myself to the fact that my father and I will never have a close relationship. We aren’t hostile to each other anymore. In fact I will openly tell him that I love him (and I do) and he will tell me this also; but there is always a hint of sadness in his voice. I will always be a disappointment to him, even though he would never say it.
I recently talked to him. This year (2017) will mark his seventieth birthday. We were never close. It is probably due to my own pride and unforgiveness of my step-mother. He says that it is his fault. Maybe it’s no one’s fault. I could hear the hurt in his silence when I told him that I was sexually assaulted. I could tell he wanted to be there and protect me from Paul, and that he was ashamed. He seemed to brighten however when I told him I successfully fended him off.
I was not who he wanted me to be.
He wanted me to be John Wayne. Instead he got Martha Stewart. For the two months out of the year he had me, he tried his darndest. He tried to mold me into the rugged All-American boy he wanted me to be. I just wanted to stay home and cook.
He seemed to be happy with my younger brother, who was everything I was not – at first. My kid brother had an uncontrolled libido and anger issues. I think he is on his fourth wife with five kids (I have lost count). He spent fifteen years working at McDonald’s, a year as a tatoo artist, and now works in a grocery deli. I don’t know who was the biggest disappointment to him: the All-American boy or his faggot son. He got what he wanted, but at great cost. Neither of us was what he had built up in his mind as the perfect son. Neither of us were John Wayne. I was the pansy and my brother had no morals.
The best thing Dad instilled in me was a belief in God. It has been a hard road on him, and neither me or my brother made it easy. I think he is looking forward to going Home.