I drove slowly back home, listening to the hits on the radio as I went. It was a leisurely, sluggish, and lazy drive home. I didn't have a lot planned for today because, to be fair, I wasn't the brightest man alive compared to my daughter. As her father and the leader of the household, I've always believed that I knew what's best for her. But truth be told, that's a lie. Really, I don't know jackshit about her, and I feel that I'm making that quite obvious to her as well.
Sitting back in my seat with one hand on the wheel, I think about how I treat Ricochet at home and in general.
Well, let's consider the facts, then.
It's such a dick move on my side that I don't sit down with her and listen to her, and in spite of the changes we've had over the past two years, she is still developing, learning, and succeeding in school, and I'm still unable to keep up with her monetarily. I'm not expecting anything from her, yet here she is, contributing in the house work like the independent young woman she has grown up to be and showing a great willingness to put other people's needs ahead of her own, as if that's her purpose here. Unlike her, I'm a dirty father. Even she, at fourteen years old, could be a better parent than me.
But even if she might be a better parent than I am, given her remarkable patience and the resolve she puts on display every morning to mask her feelings in order to finish the work, what will always hurt the most is the fact that she's my daughter...
I mean, why me of all people? A sluggish father is not what that gorgeous girl, who is loved and well respected by so many, deserves. I let my family down, don't worry, I already know. My wife is gone, my daughter is only holding on by a thread and I'm the reason, and I don't even have a proper job yet.
It hurts.. stings me almost.. no. It does sting.
It stings because, in my opinion, she will always look exactly like her mother and will never, ever look or be anything like me, even if she has been informed she is "her father's daughter." Because no matter how hard I try I will always see her mother in her face.
Almost zoning out from the drive, I tiredly look out to the road next to me as I exit the car. I had the house to myself for at least another four hours before Ricochet would come back home.
The entire day I spent as a couch potato. Well, I had nothing better to do, did I? I've already described how lazy I am, so don't be so surprised.
This felt awfully uncomfortable to be at home by myself. I missed the days when I could just sleep comfortably with a companion, whether it was my mother, wife, or daughter. I can't imagine my life without a woman, I can't cook or clean, as you already know, and I'm not very talented or creative, and I am most definitely not a reliable man either. I have my own problems right now, which I usually don't handle on my own.
It bothered me to feel like I was alone with all my troubles. Was this the true experience of loneliness? I guess I'm more pathetic than I thought.
As much as I despised the sensation, I was not able to stop the emotion. Which is why I hated it so much. I could not handle the anguish; for me, the suffering was too much. The expression on Ricochet's face when she considers things like these was beyond my dull imagination. Is she even aware that she once existed? Does she even remember her? Is her frequency of thought similar to mine?
You get what I mean? I have no knowledge about my daughter's personality. Not even I can fully comprehend her emotions..
She may feel as alone as I do at this moment, maybe even more so... who knows? Because I sure don't..
YOU ARE READING
A Father's Journey Of Renewal And Embrace
General FictionA young, twenty-eight year-old father, with a fourteen year-old daughter, tries his best in carving a path for his family to follow, trying to find a way to push past his wife's death that occurred when Ricochet turned six, and to be a good father t...
