The past two days spent with Jude's family had been nothing short of a delight. I'd immersed myself in their warmth and easy camaraderie, and in doing so, gained a clearer understanding of the world that had shaped him. But now, the moment had come for him to meet my own family. It had been months since I last saw them—living on the other side of the country had its downsides, and the hardest one was enduring these long absences.
To say I wasn't nervous would be a lie. My family's dynamic was far more complicated than the seemingly effortless harmony his enjoyed. My grandparents had always been the ideal model of love and partnership, but when it came to my parents—well, that was a more difficult tale, largely because of my father. To be blunt, his priorities had never been where they should've been. I struggle to recall a time when he was truly present—he never showed up to a school meeting, and I'm not even sure he was at the hospital when I or my siblings were born. Yet, he was always on time for his evenings at the café, where the combination of beer and football seemed to bring him more joy than anything else. Deep down, I was still that little girl, wondering why my father chose his friends and his escapes over the family waiting for him at home.
As I gazed out the jet's window, memories flooded back of the little girl I once was, waiting by the window long past bedtime, watching each car that passed by, yearning for my father to finally come home. Even now, I could feel that familiar ache in my chest whenever those memories surfaced. Everyone has their way of coping with problems, and it seemed my dad's method was to drown his sorrows in the company of friends, indulging in boisterous debates about football. It hurt to see how he prioritized everything over his family—a failing business he stubbornly refused to close, only allowing debts to pile up, his friends, the beer, the game—his pride. Each choice he made felt like a gentle betrayal, a reminder of the love and presence he chose to forfeit.
