Dad. The person I fear the most in the entire world. I fear being alone with him far more than I fear being alone with a terrorist who wished to rape me. Total fear, I’m telling you.
This fear is brought on by good reason, I assure you, but it’s still a fear I live with nonetheless. The mention of his name, at times, brings tears to my eyes. Painful tears. Tears of unhappiness from being dealt such a shitty Father card at birth. Sometimes when I hear Sis talk about him, I get jealous of the relationship they have. I balled my eyes out at her wedding during the father/daughter dance because I knew there’d never be a chance for him and I to do just that.
For years, I’ve been telling Sis, “Bring me some of Dad’s chicken and hamburgers. They are THE.BEST.” A few days ago, she finally did, but he didn’t know it. While the chicken seemed to have a slight difference in the recipe, the burgers were spot on! She gave me three. I ate three. Three nights in a row. They were exactly like I remembered. I wore a ridiculously large grin on my face as I ate them, because it was so amazingly familiar.
I would love to call him up and say OH MY GOD, DAD! RIGHT ON with the burgers! But I can’t. I won’t. No matter the recognition I think he deserves for always making the best burgers and being perfect with the recipe every time, it’s not worth it. Not to me. Not anymore.