My father and I

For some fathers, this may never be true. For others, the opportunity to become not just a good father, but a friend to your children, comes with time and the will to reach out to your children.
My father was a great parent when I was very little. I didn't see him much as he traveled extensively for work, but I remember so many fun times. My father taught me to play football (and how to let my baby sister win), to draw, to ride my first bike. He encouraged my love of reading, and taught me how to enjoy the theater. He smiled on my playing 'dress up', but also brought me Lego so I could learn how to 'engineer' a city. He instituted special 'daddy-daughter' days for my birthday, where we would spend the whole day together. When I was six, he took me to a restored chalk pit where there was also a painting gallery and wildflower trails. When I was seven, he took me to the Tower of London for the day.
This all changed as I grew older, and moved from small, cute kid, to difficult, shy preteen. I can't even remember when our relationship changed, but I do remember the misery of my teenage years: A man whom seemed interested only to yell, a man whom got frustrated by my difficulties understanding his 'help' with my math homework, and a girl who didn't understand her place in the world or how to stand up to the bullying she faced both at school, and, eventually, at home. The fights became constant: I could trigger my father with one ill-advised sentence, and the rage of his anger was frightening observe. What should have been considered normal teen rebellion was taken as ingratitude and something to be both punished and obliterated. Running away from home & locking my door became frequent themes, and the fights didn't cease as I became older and more opinionated, more determined to have my own independence.
At age 21, when I was finally old enough to receive government funding for my education without living at home, I moved into a friend's spare bedroom. I had to get away from my father, from the increasing fights which often involved the rest of the family, or even my friends when they objected to his treatment of me.
The fights still continued everytime I visited home: My father demanded my student tax credits one year, despite the fact he wasn't contributing to my education. When I refused, he threatened to ban me from my family home.
I thought I would never be able to have a good relationship with him, that we would never be able to be in each other's company without a fight. I was sure I hated him. I was sure I would never forgive him, especially when my sister was diagnosed with both anorexia and bulimia, the daughter whom my father had called 'fat' throughout her youth. I blamed him for the fact she was dying of starvation.
I blamed him despite him calling to tell me that she had agreed to be hospitalized. I thought he wanted my 'help', as he had every time before when my mom had been in the hospital or away: that he wanted my help while she was at the hospital with my sister.
But I was wrong. My father was, along with my baby' sister, falling apart. He was suddenly realizing how close he was to losing one of his daughters, before he had made any effort to know either of them as adults. He began to change slowly, as slowly as my sister's recovery and weight gain. As she gained in strength, he developed empathy.
The tyrant began to disappear: My father was concerned my sister was overspending her energy; he hovered constantly. He watched what she ate like a hawk, encouraging her to eat more food almost exactly as he had when she was a baby. He suggested family outings for the first time since I had turned 18, and when I visited, I was no longer met at the door with complaints about my behavior and attitude. After a weekend's holiday with my friends, we dropped by my parents' new house so I could give them a 'tour'. My father was polite and even joked with them. In the car on the way to my apartment, my best friend since age 12 turned said she could hardly relate him to the man he had been.
When I brought my boyfriend home for the first time, over a year ago, he was warm and welcoming, a direct contrast from the man whom had verbal fights with my previous boyfriends. When I lost my home in a fire three months ago, my father and mother invited my boyfriend and I to move in with them until we found a new home. He helped us pack up what we had salvaged, and then took us on outings' during our time living with him. He volunteered to move us into our new home. In short, he was no longer the man whom had terrorized me during my childhood with his temper and demands for perfection.
My father realized that his daughters were their own people, strong and worthy of love and respect, only when he was faced with losing one of them. In doing so, he opened up to us and reached out, regaining our trust and love, becoming mine & my sister's friend. He looks for jobs for me in the paper, he sends me funny emails. When I call, he wants to talk to me, to hear about my week. After 15 years of fighting, we are finally on the same team' again.
I am not yet sure I will ever fully respect my father, nor ever forget or fully forgive his treatment of my sister and I during our youths. What I can say now, however, is that my father is my friend, and that I love him dearly.
He has become a good father, and I have come to realize him as such, and that I need a father, 'even' at age 26. It is never too late to need a father, and therefore it is never too late for a father to become a loving support to his children, and worthy of the title "a good father".