Member-only story
My Father Died a Recluse, But He Was Still Loved
The biggest fear I had was that he would die alone
The little girl with soft blonde hair and light brown eyes looked up at the man, heart full of love. She sat stubbornly at the kitchen table while he loomed overhead watching as she refused to eat her peas or drink her milk. She hated peas. She hated milk.
“Kristina, you aren’t leaving the table until you finish your plate,” he said.
The last thing she wanted to do was make him mad. She was a good girl. She was Daddy’s good girl. Through tears, she slowly shoveled a forkful of the vegetables into her mouth, gagging them down. She sipped the warm milk and looked to him for validation. Maybe if she were good, he’d take her with him tomorrow to the dump and the grocery store and all the fun Sunday things he’d do.
When she finally finished, he scooped her up in his arms and flew her like a plane, calling her his peanut. This was love.
I don’t remember the last time I saw my father.
I live across the country from my family, in part by design, and don’t visit home often. It isn’t so much…
