It Happened to Me: When I Met My Father After 18 Years, I Tried to Make That Asshole Cry
And it worked.
By Jenny B.
I wrote this story more then 25 years ago and submitted to xoJane. I always had wanted to send it to JANE magazine, but never had the courage. I was going back and forth with [an editor] at xojane and it looked like it was promising, and then it fizzled out. Now that anotherjanepratthing is here. I figured I’d try again. Here’s my story…
The phone rings on a regular Thursday night. I lie on the couch watching TV.
“Hello, can I speak to Jennifer?” a man on the line says.
“This is Jennifer,” I say, thinking it was another bill collector.
“I think I might be your uncle,” the man says.
Panicking, I stand up to look at the caller ID, which back then is on a device next to the phone charger. It shows an unfamiliar number from out of state. “Who is this?” I ask.
“This is Peter. Jennifer?”
“Yes.” I say, my heart beating in my throat. “Wait, who is this?” I just can’t grasp that it is real. Could this really be my father’s brother?
“Peter [last name],” the man says.
“What is your brother’s name?” I ask.
“Adam,” he says. “I can’t believe I found you.”
As a child, all I knew was that my father, Adam, was an abusive alcoholic who destroyed my family. We left him when I was 4 years old. I was told stories here and there from my mother and older brothers, but we mostly didn’t discuss the topic. My brothers had a different father and had a horrible time while living with mine. I never really knew anything different. Adam didn’t know we were leaving. One day, my mother took everything and left. She left the house empty for him when he came home from work. At first, there was visitation, but apparently, I would cry when I was dropped off, and my mother didn’t feel it was good for me to be around him. She told the lawyers and judge she wouldn’t do it anymore, and Adam never fought it. We moved only 15 minutes away from him, but he never attempted to see me again.
On the phone, Peter fills me in on more details. I ask Peter the questions I’ve been asking myself all my life. “Does he talk about me?” “Does he miss me?” Peter tries to fill in the blanks as much as he can, but what I need to do is ask Adam these questions myself. I have wanted to do this for years. I would drive past his house, and stare in, hoping to get a glimpse of this man who was my father. I am mad at him. I miss him. I want a father. I want to tell him all of these things.
Peter and his wife, and their two kids, want to come to New York, to meet me. I decide I will go see Adam with them when they come up.
After about a month, Peter comes to meet me. We go out to dinner, and I meet the rest of my aunts and uncles. The next day is when I am going to meet my father. Peter and his wife pick me up. We drive the 15-minute route that is so familiar to me. Except this time, I am going to go up to the door. This time, I will be face to face with him. It is really happening.
When we pull up to Adam’s house, the plan is that Peter will go to the door and tell him I am in the car, and then we will all go in. Peter walks up to the house and knocks on the door. From the car, I see someone open the door, and Peter steps inside. Not even 30 seconds later, Adam and Peter walk out.
“Oh my god, he is so old,” is all I can say.
“Oh my god, he is so old,” is all I can say to Peter’s wife. I have pictures of him that I have stared at for all these years, but I was 4 years old when we left, and I am 22 now. He looked much different.
“Are you OK?” Peter’s wife asks.
“No,” I say. My body is shaking. But I open the car door, and we walk up to the metal gate leading to his driveway. My father is standing in front of me. That day is finally here. It is really him. I stare. I look so much like him. It is weird to look into his eyes. They are my own.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says, just staring at me.
We walk into a house that is completely foreign to me, despite the fact that I spent the first 4 years of my life there. I sit down at the kitchen table, and he sits across from me. Peter and his wife give me the look, as if to say, “Are you OK?” I nod. They stand just outside the kitchen — to give me privacy but also not leave me completely alone with him.
I am sitting there, in shock. This moment is the one I’ve replayed in my mind so many times. Adam is sitting in front of me. This is my chance. This is the time for me to say what I need to say. This is it.
“Well … I am here because I have a few things I need to say to you.” The tears are already building in my eyes. I am surprised how old and helpless he looks.
“First of all, I need to say that I am fine. I am who I am because of my mother. She has always been there as well as both of my brothers. I have had a great life, without any of your help.” I pause, to catch my breath. My voice is so shaky, but I surprise myself. I am strong.
“I need to get a few things off of my chest. When my mother lived here, the way you treated her disgusts me. There is no reason you should ever have treated her the way you did.”
“I never...” he starts to say.
“Don’t make excuses or lie, that isn’t why I’m here, OK? I just need you to listen to me.” I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
“I want you to think about my brothers for a second. Think about the fact that they didn’t have any other father figure while living here. So, who do they look to? You! And what do you do? You beat the shit out of them. You make their lives miserable. They have to watch you scream at their mother. The only male they have to look up to is you, and look at how you treated them. Do you feel sorry for that? Because you should. I had to grow up my whole life feeling guilty for what you did. You are my father, and I am related to you. And you did that to them.”
I stop speaking and sob into the tissue that Peter has given me. I take a moment, then begin again.
“Do you think we look alike?” I cry to him.
“Yes.”
“Does that make you sad? Does it make you sad to know you have a daughter that looks so much like you and you don’t know her at all? Your only child that you will ever have. Your one chance at being a father, and look at how you did. Does it bother you that you don’t know me at all? Because it should. You don’t know me at all. I am who I am today, with no help from you.”
As I am saying all of this, he is wiping tears from his sad, aged eyes. I look into them, and the tears just don’t stop.
I start again. “What do you have to say? Are you sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Look at me, I’m a big girl now. You don’t know me at all! Does that upset you? You know, for the past 18 years I have thought about you. My whole life I have thought about you. I grew up thinking that my father didn’t care about me. Do you know how much that hurt? I would always think about you. Did you think of me? Did you miss me? Are you sorry?”
“Yes,” he says and wipes his eyes.
“I had to do this. I had to do this so I can stop fucking thinking about you. I have wanted to do this for so long but I couldn’t. Do you want to know why? Because I was scared. I am scared of you.”
“You don’t have to be scared of me. I won’t hurt you,” he says as he stands up and puts his arm around me. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” he says.
As his arm is around my shoulder, I don’t feel love, don’t feel hate. I feel nothing. After a minute or so, he lets go and sits down.
There is silence for a moment. I look at Peter. “Do you want to go outside for a cigarette?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say and walk to the door. Peter and his wife follow me. So does Adam.
How could he just go on living his life, without me?
We go outside into the crisp December air, which feels so refreshing. I smoke my cigarette in silence. Adam and Peter discuss the improvements he has made on his house since the last time he had been there. All I can do is just stare at him. He is my father. This is it. This is the man who has occupied my thoughts since I can remember. This old man with a red and black flannel shirt and a Marlboro cigarette jean jacket. This old man with blond-gray hair. This man with the Polish accent. This man who is just so old. It’s like he was famous. It’s like he almost wasn’t real. But here he is. Limping along, living in this small little house. I remember that when we were inside, I saw a chicken defrosting in the sink. He was just going on with his little life, and now here I was. How could he just go on living his life, without me? All of these thoughts are going through my head as I smoke my cigarette.
I take my last drag, and flick it over the fence, into the street. Peter and his wife do the same, and we all go inside. We resume our positions, and I go into everything again. Repeating the same things I said before, but rephrasing them just enough to make him cry more. I was so strong. Eventually we come to silence again. I look to Peter for some help.
“I told Jenny about the boat,” Peter says to Adam.
Adam looks at me. “Do you want to go see it?”
“Yeah” I say, getting out of my seat. He fishes a set of keys from his pocket. We go into the garage, which is packed with junk. I look at the front of the boat.
“The name of the boat is on the back. You can’t see it from here.” Adam says. The most important part to me was hidden behind boxes.
“What is the name of it again?” Peter says.
“Princess Jenny.” Adam says. “I have to clean out this garage, and maybe you can come back again and we can go out on it.”
He named his boat after me. He named HIS boat after ME. He bought the boat about 5 years after we had left. 5 years of not seeing me. 5 years of me wondering if my father had been thinking of me, and he was. He named his boat after me. He had been thinking of me. He did love me.
We walk back into the house and Peter asks if I am ready. I nod. I’m standing, but I don’t even know what to do with my own body. How do I end this? Do I hug him?
We walk to the door, and he comes outside with us. I light another cigarette. Peter’s wife says, “Why don’t I get my camera, Jenny. You know you are going to want this picture someday. If anything ever happens, you would want it, you know?”
“All right” I say, understanding exactly what she means. When Adam dies, I would want a picture to remember him by. It’s a sad thought, actually.
We stand next to each other. He puts his arm around me. I attempt a smile.
“All right” I say, ready to go.
“Don’t be a stranger, you know, I won’t bite,” he says. “I would like to take you to dinner sometime. I am always here. Please stop by again, OK?”
“OK,” I say, not knowing how true that is. Will I ever go there again?
He hugs me and whispers, “Bye, honey,” in my ear.
I walk to the car and sit. It’s over. I did it. I finally did it.
***
I stop by to see Adam one more time briefly a few months after our first visit. It is the last time I ever see him. Trying to establish some sort of relationship is just too complicated for me. But seeing him that first day is the best thing I do for myself mentally. It lets my mind rest. No more wondering, no more hoping. I feel at peace.
About 10 years later, Peter calls to let me know Adam has passed away. My mother never divorced him, because she was afraid he’d ask for custody, so she and I are the legal next of kin. He owned a house, a few beat up cars and, of course, the boat. I spend that summer cleaning up the house, selling the cars and the house all on my own. As soon as I can, I go into the garage to see it. It is there: Princess Jenny.
I just recently gave it away. It was the last piece of the story that I didn’t need to hold onto anymore. The new owner was so touched by the story, he decided to keep the name on the boat … Princess Jenny.
I'm glad you got to tell your father how his actions affected you and your family. And that you showed him you turned out great, thanks to your mother. Thank you for your story. You are a badass.
I’m so inspired by you and I don’t even know you. Your mom fought to build you a life away from an abusive person and then you never gave up on getting your story told. Sharing our truths is never easy. Thank for you doing this.