That’s what my dad told my sister this week. That in his opinion he wasn’t a bad dad.
When she first told me, I was filled with anger. I mentally started collecting all the proof I had to prove him wrong. To show him why he was in fact a bad dad. I had screen shots and memories and a very pissed off inner teenage Cass just biting at the bit to get out and attack.
But then what? Would him admitting it change anything? Would it magically fix our crumbled family? Would it stop Little Cass from being neglected all those years ago? Would it magically fix my view on men? Would it change the way I showed up in the world? No, it would change nothing. They would simply be words coming out of an old man’s mouth. Soon to be forgotten.
You could argue it might help create a better relationship in the future. Even that is unlikely though. Knowing you’re bad at something doesn’t instantly make you better, it simply makes you aware.
So why am I so obsessed with his awareness of his own failure. Why does him disregarding his appalling job as a father make my skin crawl? Probably because whenever someone is doing an appalling job there’s two faits available for the product they’re working on. The product will either be poorly made, not made at all or if someone else steps in and does the work the product will end up okay it might even end up better.
I am the product and the someone who stepped. I put in hours of overtime on the product. I showed up every day, even when I was tired, even when I didn’t want to. I chipped away at the work that wasn’t meant for me and I got the job done.
So that’s probably why my skin crawled. Not because I needed to him say he had done a bad job, but because I wanted to be told I had done a fucking good job.
A good job looking after myself, in every capacity of the word. A good job going to therapy to unlearn what my childhood had taught me. A good job being single for years constructing new standards I set for myself. A good job protecting Corrina when he didn’t.
Maybe I don’t need to him tell me I’ve done a good job. Because I know I have, I see the evidence of my good job every day. I see it when I happily take myself to the markets no longer feeling lonely for doing it single. I see it when I’m not impressed by a man’s words only by his actions. I see it when a blue job arises in our home and swiftly grab my tool bag eager to complete it.
He won’t see it though, his daily life will hold no proof of his opinion. He has no children eager to tell him about their days, he has no potential boyfriends nervous to meet him, he has nothing to provide for and nothing to protect.
So what does his opinion really matter when his life is proof to prove him wrong.
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