Fathers Day…

Fathers Day…

Today is Fathers Day. Many children will take time out to tell their dads how much they love them, giving cards and gifts to that person who they look up to and love and respect. The man who can protect them, care for them and comfort them no matter how bad things get.

OK, so maybe that is a bit of a romantic view of a father.  In children’s literature from an earlier time, the father was a shadowy figure, out working all day, coming home in time to tuck his neatly pressed children into bed before eating the meal his beautiful wife had lovingly prepared once she had finished the housework. Idyllic huh?

Modern fathers are a different animal. Much more hands-on, playing football with their sons, adoring their daughters – yes, I know, still a romantic view.

The fact is that nowadays the predefined notion of a “family” is often turned on its head. Many broken families leave children with little or no contact with their fathers, and it is often seen as totally acceptable for single mums to have little or no contact with the father of their children. In other situations, fathers fight desperately to maintain contact with their children. The newspapers often feature doom-laden stories about both of these scenarios. Of course, deep down, we all know that the best thing would be for every child to have a loving and supportive mother, father, and extended family in their lives. Sadly nowadays, life is rarely like that.

My father died several years ago. At the time of his death, we had been estranged for about 10 years. He did not know his granddaughter, having only met her once when she was 4 months old. My mum called me with the news when I was sitting in Dublin Airport, waiting for a flight to Shannon for work. I sat in the airport lounge and cried as if my heart was breaking. And I was not sure why.

Dad was a very handsome man. He met my mum when she was 17, at the Ally Pally (Alexandra Palace) in North London near where they both lived. They married in 1955 and had me in 1958. My sister followed 4 years later. We moved to Bishops Stortford when I was 7. He was a typesetter, working with the old hot metal linotype machines. He worked for the Mirror group for years before setting up his own business in the town.

My dad could be a little remote. He was not patient, often declaring “enough is a sufficiency” after a bout of horseplay, but he was my dad. I discovered later that he wrote beautiful poetry. I have memories of sharing books with him, and I remember his smell, Albany aftershave mixed with nicotine! My friends adored him.

But Dad was not a faithful man. Of course, as children, we were not aware of that, but when I was 16, he left to live with another family. Back in the 70s, this was not as common as it is now. Apart from the devastating hurt it caused my mum, my sister and me, it was, for me, horribly embarrassing, and believe it or not – I did not tell anyone other than my closest friends. Seems funny now to keep such a major life event so secret.

This blog is not the place for all that followed, suffice it to say that the pain and misery have coloured our lives to one extent or another. For several years I did see quite a bit of my dad but somehow it was never quite the relationship that I hoped it would be. Eventually, there was a bust-up and contact was lost. At various key points in my life, I tried to rebuild the relationship, but all efforts failed miserably.

When I heard that my father was very ill, I debated whether to try once more. It seemed important for me to show him that I was OK and that he had a beautiful, amazing granddaughter. I agonised for quite some time over what was the best thing to do. In the end, I decided that the pain and the hurt that such an attempt might bring to all sides of the family was not worth it. I still think that was the right decision.

So, the tears in Dublin airport were for all kind of emotions. Regret, sadness, and overwhelming anger for all that could have been.

Last year I had some counselling. At the time I was very stressed at work and was offered the opportunity to see a counsellor. I had five two-hour sessions with a brilliant guy who not only dealt with the immediate situation but also gave me the chance to address all kinds of underlying rubbish that was colouring my whole attitude to my life. It was a bit of a pre-cursor to Project Penny!

One of the biggest subjects we addressed was my dad. And during those sessions, I finally learned to set aside my anger. To acknowledge that my dad was not perfect, and to be honest, did not behave well but that it was not my fault. I am still sad and regretful, but there is a level of acceptance there that gives me some peace. But sometimes, watching other families out and about, or on occasions such as Father’s Day, I still feel a twinge of anger and disappointment.

My daughter also has no relationship with her real father. His choice, I have always encouraged him to stay in contact. Out situation and separation were for different reasons, mainly those found at the bottom of a bottle. Zoe is pragmatic about it. There was no mystery about why I could no longer live with her father.

But today she gave a card to her stepfather with love and humour. He is a great dad.

So, Happy Father’s Day Dad. Wherever you are. Despite everything I still love the dad I remember as a child. And thank you, Nigel, for giving my daughter the love and support she needs.

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