It’s Never Too Late
I used to love Dad, like more than ice cream, or life itself. We'd play and play and play all day.
Then he became a controlling chauvinist, and we did nothing to stop the metamorphosis. My mum was especially powerless to stop a raging egotistical maniac. He was gruelling, having meted harsh discipline to his boys at school. But when you're defined by what you do for a living, it's not easy to transcend.
Granted, we were entirely cocooned in our own insecurities to know better.
One day he came at me with a chair, and I left the house. I didn't run away, but that love that was fast eroding crossed the threshold into hate.
Dad probably never stopped loving me, just like when I was fresh out of the oven. He'd never stop, like I never will with my boy.
Dad remains just another man in my life, although I wished it could be different. But to dredge up the past is to tear open old wounds and I'm not brave enough.
I haven't lived my life following principles that preceded the well-being of my family.
I'll never know why Dad did what he did, but I had an inkling.
I'll never understand what drove him, but I appreciate it could've been worse.
I see him in me at times.
I still cherish the values he instilled.
I use him as a reflection, a compass that points true South that I may always walk the opposite path.
I still love him.
I hope he knows.
Maybe one day, we'll tear down the barbed wires, spend more time watching his grandchildren grow up, on our back verandah, drinking beer, eating peanuts.
It's not too late, right?