Father\u2019s day cards from Grant\u2013zero. Birthday cards from Grant\u2013zero. The silence is deafening.\u201d I didn\u2019t even have to look at the postcard from my dad to tell my therapist what it said. The words were seared in my memory. Dad was always finding fault. Keeping score.<\/p>\n
There was no change in my therapist\u2019s calm expression. \u201cIf you could say anything to your father, what would it be?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d Whatever I said would only be found lacking.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe key to sobriety is honesty,\u201d he said. \u201cNot just about your drinking. About your relationships.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sighed. My recovery sponsor had been telling me the same thing lately.<\/p>\n
My therapist asked again. \u201cIf you were going to die tonight, Grant, what would you say to your dad?\u201d<\/p>\n
My father was a Navy fighter pilot. Pilots are notorious control freaks. Throw in a hefty dose of military discipline, and that made the man impossi ble to live with. Thank God he was often away on deployment when I was a kid.<\/p>\n
Otherwise in our house, it was all \u201cYes sir\u201d and \u201cNo sir.\u201d He laid down strict rules and didn\u2019t hesitate to enforce them. My sister coped, but I chafed at all the restrictions. A minor infraction like snacking between meals would get me sent to my room for the night.<\/p>\n
The punishment increased exponentially for more serious offenses. As a teenager, I was grounded for months on end.<\/p>\n
Much as I hated his rules, I hated his cold, distant demeanor more. Dad had exacting standards, and he was quick to point out how we didn\u2019t meet them.<\/p>\n
He was the hardest on Mom. He complained about her permissiveness, her spending, her housekeeping, even the kooky Lucille Ball sense of humor that made her so much fun to be around.<\/p>\n
She had to be hospitalized for her nerves a number of times, and I was sure it was all Dad\u2019s fault. As soon as I finished high school, I left home and didn\u2019t look back.<\/p>\n
Mom\u2019s funeral was the last time I saw Dad. He knew nothing about me, and that\u2019s the way I wanted it. He\u2019d phone from San Diego once a month with military precision, always at 5:00 p.m. (1700 hours, he\u2019d say) on a Sunday. It was the same stilted small talk every time\u2013the weather, sports, the news.<\/p>\n
I knew he only called me out of duty, not out of any real feeling. Certainly not out of love. That, I had always tried to convince myself, was not part of our equation.<\/p>\n
I built a good life in Arlington, Virginia. I had a solid job, a beautiful family, a nice house. But inside I was miserable, and I didn\u2019t know why.<\/p>\n
I turned to the bottle to mask the pain. My drinking got out of control. I wrecked five cars. I flew into fits of rage. When I saw my kids pull away from me, fear in their eyes\u2013the way I used to react to my dad\u2013I knew I had to get help.<\/p>\n
I joined a recovery program, faithfully went to meetings. Each day it became easier for me to say, \u201cMy name is Grant. I\u2019m an alcoholic.\u201d With my sponsor\u2019s guidance, I worked the 12 steps.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d come a long way over the years. But lately I\u2019d gotten stuck, on the eighth step: becoming willing to make amends to everyone I\u2019d harmed with my drinking. I\u2019d made a list and divided it into three categories: \u201cImmediately,\u201d \u201cWhen the opportunity arises\u201d and \u201cWhen hell freezes over.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dad was the lone entry in the last category. My sponsor and my friends in recovery said that wasn\u2019t how the program worked. I ignored them. They didn\u2019t know my father!<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
What I couldn\u2019t ignore were my feelings about Dad. I tried to pack them away and move on. I didn\u2019t want them controlling my life the way he used to. I asked God to take away my anger and resentment, but I didn\u2019t get an answer.<\/p>\n
To me, that silence felt like rejection. First my earthly father, then my heavenly Father too. I had tried to love them both but they didn\u2019t love me back.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t talk honestly with my dad,\u201d I told my therapist. \u201cHe\u2019ll shut me down.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen write him a letter,\u201d my therapist said. He handed me a notepad and pen. \u201cHere, give it a try.\u201d<\/p>\n
I took a deep breath and picked up the pen. \u201cJust as the silence was deafening to you…\u201d I began. I described how hurt and rejected I\u2019d felt growing up because he never hugged me, never noticed anything good that I did, never said he loved me. Before I knew it, I\u2019d filled a page and a half.<\/p>\n
The next day I mailed it. There. The truth was out. No more pretending. No more stilted phone calls.<\/p>\n
And that\u2019s what happened. Literally. Dad didn\u2019t call that month. Or the next. Fine, <\/em>I told myself. I don\u2019t care.<\/em><\/p>\n Six months after I sent the letter, I finally got a call. From my sister. \u201cSomething\u2019s wrong with Dad,\u201d she said. \u201cHe\u2019s sick.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean sick<\/em>?\u201d Dad had an iron constitution, unlike poor Mom.<\/p>\n \u201cI think he\u2019s depressed, really depressed. I\u2019ve never seen him like this. I don\u2019t know what\u2019s wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n But I did. I hung up, stunned. I\u2019d pictured my dad being angry, disgusted, dismissive. I\u2019d never imagined he would be hurt. If he\u2019s hurt by what I wrote, he has to care about me…at least a little, <\/em>I thought. It hit me that everything I\u2019d condemned him for, I was guilty of myself.<\/p>\n I picked up the phone and for the first time in 15 years, I dialed my father\u2019s number. \u201cDad?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGrant?\u201d He sounded shocked.<\/p>\n \u201cHow are you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFine. How are you?\u201d<\/p>\n The weather, the Redskins, the Chargers… we ran out of small talk.<\/p>\n My heartbeat quickened. My hand holding the phone shook. Then the words I knew I had to say as much for myself as for him flew out of my mouth. \u201cI love you, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n Silence. So intense it took both hands to keep the phone to my ear. God, please don\u2019t let him hang up!<\/em><\/p>\n I heard something strange. A stifled gasp. Ragged breathing. Then I realized Dad was crying.<\/p>\n \u201cI love you too, son,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Never in my life had I heard him call me \u201cson.\u201d Or say \u201cI love you.\u201d Never, ever had I known him to cry. Not Dad. Not this man I thought I knew.<\/p>\n That call was a beginning. A tentative one. Three months later I flew out to San Diego to spend a week with my father.<\/p>\n Even though we\u2019d been talking on the phone every week, it wasn\u2019t until we went on a three-hour drive to see my sister that we really got honest with each other. I guess we both felt safer talking to the windshield than face-to-face.<\/p>\n \u201cI need to tell you something,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m a recovering alcoholic. I\u2019ve been sober six years now.\u201d<\/p>\n Dad was silent for a minute. Was he going to criticize me for lacking self-control? I braced myself.<\/p>\n Then he spoke. \u201cYou know your mom was an alcoholic….\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n No, I didn\u2019t know. But the moment I heard it, I knew it was true. \u201cAll those times she was in the hospital for her nerves, she was actually drying out?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes. I\u2019m sorry I didn\u2019t tell you. At first I was trying to protect you. Then I assumed you\u2019d figured out what was going on. I was afraid you blamed me.\u201d<\/p>\n The more we talked, the more the pieces fell into place. Mom had seemed so fun and carefree to me as a kid. Now I recognized the kooky things she did as the risk-taking behavior of an alcoholic.<\/p>\n Carefree, when she was under the influence, devolved into carelessness\u2013with money, housework, even parenting. All the times she left my sister and me to fend for ourselves, saying gaily that she was just going out for a little while.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you divorce her?\u201d I asked Dad.<\/p>\n \u201cBack then they didn\u2019t give custody to fathers,\u201d he told me. \u201cI figured that three months of sanity a year when I was home was better than none.\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019d pegged my father as cold-hearted and cruel when all along, he\u2019d been trying to do right by his children. He knew we needed structure and stability, so he combated the chaos the only way he knew\u2013with military order and discipline.<\/p>\n He\u2019d seen seeds of my mother\u2019s disease in my teenage recklessness and tried to nip it in the bud. He hadn\u2019t meant to hurt me. Everything he\u2019d done, he\u2019d done out of love.<\/p>\n We spent the rest of my visit making up for lost time. When we said goodbye, he pulled me into a long hug.<\/p>\n In that embrace, I felt not only my father\u2019s love but also the love of the Father who had reconciled us and who would give us 17 more years together, 17 years filled with the closeness\u2013and the amends\u2013 that we\u2019d both longed for.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n