sure, of course, but I think that was the turning in our relationship. Any pretensions I had of being Annabel’s father began to slip away. I allowed them to slip, out of sheer helplessness. Every time we had a row, Annabel reminded me of the one thing I couldn’t change.
‘You’re not my father!’ The four most hurtful words I’ve ever known. Every time it cut me to the quick.
When I did dare to discipline her, act in what I felt was a fatherly way, she flew into a rage. And I must admit I usually stepped down, hating myself for doing so, but always feeling backed into a corner by my own ambiguous role.
Tracey tried to encourage me, and she always stood beside me. That seemed to infuriate Annabel more. Perhaps she remembered the days when it had just been her and Tracey, perhaps she felt like we were ganging up on her. Whatever it was, and whatever we tried, nothing seemed to work. It was as if the few precious years of innocence, when I’d felt like her true father and she’d accepted me as such, had never been.
As Annabel matured into an adult, our relationship entered a neutral, emotionless zone. The tirades of her teenaged years had subsided, and she’d become an accomplished and friendly young woman I would be proud of, if she’d let me. Fatherly pride on my part was forbidden. She now regarded me as the one thing I really was, her mother’s husband. At family occasions and celebrations, we exchanged semi-polite chit-chat.
“Things all right at uni, Annabel?”
“Yes, fine, thank you, Mike.”
When Annabel was twenty-two she brought home Stuart, her almost-fiancé. It occurred to me then, as I shook his hand, how unfatherly I had become. I had slipped out of it completely, almost without realizing. No vetting the boyfriends for me, no insisting on less makeup and longer skirts for my little girl. I simply stood there, smiling politely and nodding my head, feeling useless.
We threw a small party when Annabel and Stuart became engaged. Champagne and hors d’oevres for twenty close friends. Tracey moved around the room, reveling in her role as mother of the bride. Every once in awhile she’d shoot me a worried glance, to make sure things between Annabel and I were still cordial.
Somehow I ended up alone in the kitchen with Annabel. I was taking a tray of mini sausage rolls out of the oven, she were coming in for a refill.
“Hello, Mike.”
I stood up, dropping the tray on the stovetop with a clatter. “Hello, Annabel.” Silence yawned between us, and I tried to fill it. “This is quite an occasion.”
“Yes.”
“Stuart seems like a nice fellow. A very nice fellow indeed.” What could I say that she would want to hear?
“Thank you.” Her reply as usual, the minimum required.
“I just want to say...” I cleared my throat, fumbling for words. “I know things haven’t always been easy between us, but I am happy for you. I’ve always wanted your happiness.” I tried to gauge Annabel’s reaction, but her face was impassive. There is so much I would’ve liked to say. I would’ve liked to shake her by the shoulders and shout ‘why have you made it like this between us, Annabel? We could have had so much more. I could have been your father, your real father... if only you’d have let me!”
I would’ve liked to tell her it was my fault too, for making things difficult between us. I should’ve been stronger, firmer. Perhaps if I’d acted more like her father, she would have accepted me as such. Perhaps if I hadn’t been afraid, nervous, unwilling to believe that all parents, whenever they assume that role, experience struggles and doubts... perhaps then we would have had a chance at a real relationship.
All this, I knew, came years too late, and soI didn’t say anything. I just smiled and hoped that some of my sincerity and regret reached her.
For a moment I thought I saw something flash in her
‘You’re not my father!’ The four most hurtful words I’ve ever known. Every time it cut me to the quick.
When I did dare to discipline her, act in what I felt was a fatherly way, she flew into a rage. And I must admit I usually stepped down, hating myself for doing so, but always feeling backed into a corner by my own ambiguous role.
Tracey tried to encourage me, and she always stood beside me. That seemed to infuriate Annabel more. Perhaps she remembered the days when it had just been her and Tracey, perhaps she felt like we were ganging up on her. Whatever it was, and whatever we tried, nothing seemed to work. It was as if the few precious years of innocence, when I’d felt like her true father and she’d accepted me as such, had never been.
As Annabel matured into an adult, our relationship entered a neutral, emotionless zone. The tirades of her teenaged years had subsided, and she’d become an accomplished and friendly young woman I would be proud of, if she’d let me. Fatherly pride on my part was forbidden. She now regarded me as the one thing I really was, her mother’s husband. At family occasions and celebrations, we exchanged semi-polite chit-chat.
“Things all right at uni, Annabel?”
“Yes, fine, thank you, Mike.”
When Annabel was twenty-two she brought home Stuart, her almost-fiancé. It occurred to me then, as I shook his hand, how unfatherly I had become. I had slipped out of it completely, almost without realizing. No vetting the boyfriends for me, no insisting on less makeup and longer skirts for my little girl. I simply stood there, smiling politely and nodding my head, feeling useless.
We threw a small party when Annabel and Stuart became engaged. Champagne and hors d’oevres for twenty close friends. Tracey moved around the room, reveling in her role as mother of the bride. Every once in awhile she’d shoot me a worried glance, to make sure things between Annabel and I were still cordial.
Somehow I ended up alone in the kitchen with Annabel. I was taking a tray of mini sausage rolls out of the oven, she were coming in for a refill.
“Hello, Mike.”
I stood up, dropping the tray on the stovetop with a clatter. “Hello, Annabel.” Silence yawned between us, and I tried to fill it. “This is quite an occasion.”
“Yes.”
“Stuart seems like a nice fellow. A very nice fellow indeed.” What could I say that she would want to hear?
“Thank you.” Her reply as usual, the minimum required.
“I just want to say...” I cleared my throat, fumbling for words. “I know things haven’t always been easy between us, but I am happy for you. I’ve always wanted your happiness.” I tried to gauge Annabel’s reaction, but her face was impassive. There is so much I would’ve liked to say. I would’ve liked to shake her by the shoulders and shout ‘why have you made it like this between us, Annabel? We could have had so much more. I could have been your father, your real father... if only you’d have let me!”
I would’ve liked to tell her it was my fault too, for making things difficult between us. I should’ve been stronger, firmer. Perhaps if I’d acted more like her father, she would have accepted me as such. Perhaps if I hadn’t been afraid, nervous, unwilling to believe that all parents, whenever they assume that role, experience struggles and doubts... perhaps then we would have had a chance at a real relationship.
All this, I knew, came years too late, and soI didn’t say anything. I just smiled and hoped that some of my sincerity and regret reached her.
For a moment I thought I saw something flash in her
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