Farewell to My Father

February 14, 2024 | Short Story

As the sun sets in the west and the crow caws its last, I finally bury my father’s corpse.
Suddenly, my hands lose grip of the shovel. My body starts to feel heavy, as if I were carrying a truck containing bricks. My head begins throbbing. My legs are like noodles. I feel exhausted. My legs collapse on the sepia-colored field, and my vision fades into darkness.
I didn’t want my father to die. I still had plenty of questions to ask him. Did he care about me? Did my mother care about me? Was I ever good enough for him, even for just a moment? Did I even matter?
My eyes open to meet the dismal field, and I wistfully stare at the hill of soil that sits atop the grave. The somber sky reminds me of the discoloration on our house’s walls, accompanied by the waft of an indescribable scent. The rocky soil is tantamount to what my father would throw at me when I misbehaved as a form of punishment. Everything started to feel like home–a word that brought distaste and woe to my bitter tongue.
I learned from others that a father was supposed to love their child–to feed them, clothe them, and to be their guiding light. Although, I never seemed to experience those things. Instead, my love was met by hatred, my care met by ignorance, and my attempts at connection were met by beatings and shouting. I was a little girl chasing the silhouette of a man who was supposed to love me.
With one last glance, I say my first and final goodbye to my father.

Clusters of stars grace the night sky as I return home. Beams of light shine through the cracks on the roof, and vines encapsulate the facade as if it were an abandoned estate. Loose nails protrude out of the wooden walls, and piles of leaves gather on the gutters.
The door opens with a long and obnoxious creak. The reek of brandy and cigarettes greets me as I enter the abysmal atmosphere. It feels unusual not to be greeted with a scream or my father passed out on the floor, but a weight was lifted off my chest.
I am free.

For the first time, I enter my father’s room.
The room is covered in bottles. Bottles of beer, wine, liquor–it was an accumulation of the bottles he’s had over the years. Father was a hoarder, even if he had no use for most of the things he’s hoarded.
A tear falls from my eye. More tears start to fall. Why am I crying? Why do I still long for a connection? Why do I still long for the truth?
I scan the room for items of interest, gazing at piles of used clothing, bottles, and tissues. I notice marks on the floor that are adjacent to my father’s closet, opposite his bed. Coincidentally, the wall where the closet was against is the same wall my father used to drill a couple months back.
I begin to move my father’s closet away from the wall, revealing a small hole. I move my father’s closet farther away, until I could see what the hole contained.
My eyes lock upon a porcelain box that sat on my father’s bedside table, decorated with intricate patterns of flowers and shapes. The box radiated an enchanting aura, and I could feel a sense of warmth from it.
My feet start to gravitate towards the box.
“Open it,” My brain echoes.
I take out the box from the hole and slowly lift the cover. My breath starts to feel heavy. What could my father possibly be keeping?
Pictures overflow as I open the box. They were all pictures of a family–a couple with three children. The man stood firmly in a suit in each of the photos. He had slicked-back blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a sharp jawline. He had a bright smile–a smile that showed enjoyment and happiness.
The children were dressed in their own unique outfits with some photos of them in matching jumpers. They each shared their father’s eyes and hair, and their smiles were equally warm and radiant. The boys seemed to be around 4 years old, whereas the girl appeared to be a few years older.
The woman had long auburn hair that shined effortlessly, and eyes that were the color of the soil. She wore vibrant, floral-patterned maxi dresses that complimented her fair skin. Her smile beamed through each photo, as if she were a supermodel.
They were a perfect family–something I could only have in my sleep.
I find two envelopes buried beneath the pile of pictures–one envelope is sealed, while the other is not. I open the unsealed envelope and find a picture of an ultrasound scan and a letter.

March 13, 1998

Dearest Lena,

Words cannot describe how happy I am to start this new chapter of our lives together. I am sure Maxine, Elijah, and Leo are thrilled to know that they’re having a baby sister. Maxine would love to play dolls with her, and Elijah and Leo would love to take her on their adventures.

Did you know that the name Ziva shares the same meaning as your name? I chose it because I know that Ziva would bring light and joy to those around her, just like how you brought light into my life. I am eternally grateful that you are a part of my life, and I’m sure Ziva would be just as grateful.

Always know that you’re a champion. A fighter. I will always be in awe of that. I have never met anyone as resilient and strong as you, and each day I continue to be amazed by the kind of person that you are.

Cheers to a new part of our lives, and cheers to growing old with you.

Always and forever,
Colin

All this time, I had been looking at pictures of my parents and my siblings.
They were pictures of my family, and the letter was from my father talking about me.
I was special to him. I was my parents’ light.
They cared about me, even if it was just for a moment.

I fight back tears as I get the sealed envelope. I reach inside to find another letter.

December 31, 1998

Dearest Lena,

It is my first Christmas and New Year’s season without you and the kids. I am heartbroken. Devastated. I don’t know how to live anymore without my light.

The truck driver was imprisoned last week. He tested positive for driving under the influence of alcohol and was charged for voluntary manslaughter. I don’t understand how cruel he is–how cruel this world is. I don’t understand why my family was taken away from me.

Ziva is already a couple weeks old. I’m sure she’s wondering where her mother went. Even I still wonder that too. Every day is a living nightmare for me–it’s hard to wake up each day knowing that you’re gone. It should’ve been me instead. Why wasn’t it me?

You told me to keep on living for the family, but it’s impossible. My heart cannot bear the grief and loss that it’s suffering. I don’t think I can bear to take care of myself anymore. I’ve been resulting to things I know you wouldn’t like, but I have no other choice.

Ziva has your eyes. It hurts that she looks like you. She even has your smile. I feel selfish for keeping her. I can’t afford to take care of her, but I can’t let her go either.

It should’ve been you and the kids who survived that day.

I’m sorry that I failed you.

Colin

Attached to the letter were four other papers–they were death certificates. I started to cry as my heart sank. My knees dropped upon reading the papers.
Maxine, Elijah, and Leo died of traumatic brain injuries caused by the car crash.
Lena died of maternal death.

I stumble backward, my back crashing against the wall. Tears swell in my eyes.
It is my fault that my mother died.
It is my fault that my father was mad at me.
It is my fault that I exist.
It is my fault that I am alone.