A Phone Call with my Vainglorious Dad

My father and I have a tenuous relationship. He’s narcissistic, and at times, verbally abusive. About four years ago, he invited himself into our home, threw a tantrum over politics and used a particularly nasty racial slur. Our daughter, who up till that point had never been privy to one of her grandfather’s violent outbursts, ran and hid in a closet in the basement. My husband and I told him if he used the word in our home again, he’d need to leave. He responded by grabbing the banister and refusing to budge, like a child. My husband escorted him out the front door.

The truth of the matter is, I sometimes enjoy these batshit conversations with my father, when he’s not being verbally abusive. He’s fascinating in his obliviousness.

Since that incident, things have been strained between us and we stopped talking altogether for a time. Him because his feelings were hurt. Me, because I was fucking pissed off. On occasion, he reminds me of the time we threw him out of our house, letting me know how much it hurt his feelings.

Eventually, after many months, he began to reach out to me again, because narcissists need their audience like an addict needs their fix. He needs someone to hear his stories, and we’ve come to an…