sad father's day

My father is a real estate agent. Back when I was still his prized possession, before I learned that I could scare him by becoming exactly like him, he used to bring me along to property viewings. While he entertained his clients, I would always disappear into the kitchen.

The kitchen was my favourite place. Every time we visited a house, I played house. I was the mother, I was the father, and I was the daughter. These kitchens, unlike the one we had at home, were always quiet. As the mother, I imagined my father's arm wrapped around her waist, teasing her until she laughed, not shouting profanities across the room. As the daughter, I sat at the dining table watching them, convinced that in this version of my life, my parents were in love. It was easier to believe in this imagined family than the one waiting for me back home.

My oldest friend was imagination. It worked overtime to protect me. It made sure that although I couldn't have a good family in reality, I could have one for a little while inside somebody else's home. In these kitchens, the loudest sounds were conversations, laughter echoing off empty walls, not a father raising his hand to his wife because he called it "discipline." My mother has always been a good listener. You could leave marks on her heart, but he chose to leave them on her instead.

I watched my father sell these houses over and over again. He would smile at young couples and tell them this was a wonderful place to raise children, that it was in a safe neighbourhood, that it was "family-friendly." I remember wondering what that meant. What is a family-friendly home? What about our family? Didn't we deserve a family too?

I suppose it's fitting that this piece is being written a week after Father's Day. Isn't that how fathers like you are? Your apologies always arrive late, only after you've realised your daughter isn't as forgiving as your wife. Maybe that's your greatest punishment: watching your daughter become exactly like you. 

I spent my entire childhood chasing your validation, while you spent yours believing there would always be more time to apologise. As if I'd be waiting until your grave called your name just to finally say, "I forgive you."

But apologies have an expiry date. An apology means very little when it only comes after you've run out of excuses, and by then, the little girl who spent years waiting to hear it has already grown into a woman who no longer needs it.

From a young age, I learnt how heavy the words “Abah tak sayang ya ke?” could be. I knew exactly when to use it, like a tool. I used it when I didn’t want to go to tuition, when I needed you to admit you were wrong, when I needed something from you that I couldn’t get any other way. But if every time I had to make you feel guilty just to get you to show up as a better father, then were you ever doing it because you wanted to? Or was it always just damage control, something you said so the guilt would quiet down for a while?