The sounds of cracks and cursing are among my first memories.

I think the earliest comes from when I was around three years old, rubbing my mom’s belly as we pondered over names for my new sibling.

The next memory is standing in a kitchen while my father rears back and punches my already bloody mother. The crack of knuckle to skull somehow echoed over the screaming.

I stood with clenched fists to the side, shouting every taboo word in my vocabulary. I knew if I yelled the right one, they would stop fighting each other and reprimand me, a child’s logic.

The cycle of violence continued for some time, and through it all I loved my father even when I hated him.

Then, something clicked.

The blame

I blamed myself for most of my mom’s beatings. Whenever she would muster the will to escape, I would cry for my dad.

I was probably around 8 the last time I begged her to go back. We fled in the early morning with the promise of McDonald’s on my mind. I didn’t realize what was happening until my father ran out of the house shirtless with a bottle of liquor in his hand. Already an avid horror fan, his movement reminded me of the undead I usually watched to escape the horrors of reality.

My mom hit him with the car and didn’t look back. The alcohol shattered across the window, distorting reality.

I don’t remember if I cried. I don’t remember if I had McDonald’s. We ended up living in a hotel for what seemed like a lifetime, long enough for me to teach myself how to ride a bike.

My mom got a new boyfriend. I hated him because he wasn’t my dad.

I remember begging her to go back.

She did.

I blamed myself for the next beatings for about 30 years. I still have to focus to absolve myself of this crime. Remember, you can’t remove the agency from a grown woman because I was a crying child.

However, by the time I was 10, any love for my father was gone. It was replaced with a deep hatred and an even deeper shame. I’m not sure what made me hate him. It wasn’t any one particular beating. He even put his drunken hands on me more than once, but I always wanted to go back.

A switch just flipped.

I was done.

My mom was done.

We left the state, and I didn’t speak to him again for a decade.

The lost years

The absence of my father never bothered me. I never yearned for a male role model. His existence did shape me, though. I was driven not to be him.

I am alcohol and drug-free because I couldn’t be him. I saw what happened when liquor and crack took his mind. My goal was to always maintain control. Never show my anger unless it is part of some strategy. (If the anger is not controlled, it is a weakness. This is a mentality I remember in my classroom.)

He tried to reach out to me a few times while I was in college. He just knew I was going to choose some financially lucrative career like a lawyer or doctor. (It shows how little he knew me. Even as a child, I was desperate for careers that involved receiving very little financial compensation.) I assumed for a long time he only reached out in hopes of benefiting from my predicted future success.

It was a decade later when I spoke to him again, at my mother’s funeral. The sermon, instead of being about my dead mother, focused on forgiving those still living.

The preacher reprimanded me for what felt like an hour. My father attempted to talk to me after, but I wasn’t having it. I’m sure his whole family came together to create that magical sermon.

My mother’s last poem, only weeks before she died, was about my father’s abuse.

Reconnecting

After another decade of growth and healing, I started speaking to my father.

It wasn’t some grand moment; I just slowly started responding to his texts.

I did realize something recently. I hadn’t truly forgiven him, even though I was certain I had for decades.

No one is owed forgiveness, but it is important for me to give the opportunity.

I didn’t need a reconnection. I still had no love for him, but I did pity him. I tend to operate with one assumption in mind. People have the capacity to change. If I stop believing that, my career, my hope in humanity, diminishes.

However, I didn’t extend the same grace to my father. So, I started talking to him. I was not especially impressed. As far as I know, he doesn’t do crack anymore. I guess that is a huge win, but alcohol is still a big part of his life.

I hold no animosity in my heart for him, but I don’t love him. I pretend to, though. I even send some heart emojis.

We planned on sitting down to have a gloves-off discussion about life and decisions when the world decided to throw a curveball.

He has pancreatic cancer. Although we haven’t said it out loud, he is likely dying. He won’t even say the “c” word, but he is wasting away. He is in constant pain.

I wish I had more genuine love to give him.

I don’t. I pretend. I can’t offer a hug, but I would return one if it were ever offered. If he said he loved me, I would try to say the words back without wincing.

I wish I could end with some clever insight about life, but I don’t have one this time. Everyone has to move differently in this situation. For some people, the weight of seeing an abuser, no matter how many years have passed, is too much. That’s okay.

For others, failing to find the love in this situation is a failure.

For me, I’m there. That is more than I thought I would ever do. That is enough. I don’t love him, but I forgive him.