So I return to my home one day and see that my dad has called. He’s left a message on the answering machine. As always he sounds exasperated. As if I’m never in or I don’t call him straight back, which is not the case. Straight away I feel small and nervous and in desperate need to get this over with. To call him back.
I am 53 years old, financially independent with my own business and a grown up daughter. But I’m not wanting to do this. Because I know I always come away upset. Something is always just not right. He just can’t hold it in. Shut his fucking mouth.
This particular time whatever the conversation was initially about I happen to mention in passing we have got a little chihuahua now.
I might as well have been 17 the way my father spoke to me. I’d done the stupidest thing in the universe. Didn’t I know that they shit and pissed everywhere? Why oh why? My carpets would smell. I’d have to take them for walks. Blah fucking blah.
One time I told my dad my daughter might go down the social work route when she finished Uni. His and his wife’s reaction warranted it’s own drama. It’s own fucking film. I held the phone away from my head and thought ‘how the fuck dare you?’
I only wish I’d said it.
