The trouble started when I moved out. Before that, his quirks were background noise. Now? They’re a symphony of irritation. He has this habit of giving unsolicited advice, like I’m still the child who needs to be told to “wear a sweater.”
“You should invest in gold,” he’ll say, ignoring that I’m trying to afford rent. “Why don’t you call your cousin more often?” he’ll ask, as if I have a personal assistant for family guilt trips. I nod, smile, and then mentally tally another point on the “reasons Dad drives me up the wall” chart.
And don’t get me started on his narrative. Oh, the narrative. He has a whole version of my childhood that I swear didn’t happen. “Remember that time I taught you to ride a bike in one afternoon?” he’ll say, beaming. No, Dad. I remember falling into a bush while you yelled, “Pedal faster!”
The Silent Treatment of a Lifetime
Here’s the real kicker: he’s terrible at apologizing. Truly, epically bad. He’s the king of the non-apology. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Ugh. That’s not an apology! That’s a verbal shrug with a side of gaslighting.
Nick Offerman Quote: “The older I get, the more my parents just seem
I once tried to have a real conversation with him about something that hurt me years ago. He listened, nodded, and then said, “Well, I was just trying to help.” And then he walked off to watch golf. The conversation? Over. My feelings? Evaporated into the void of his well-meaning obliviousness.
It makes me wonder: did he ever actually see me? Or was I just a prop in his “great dad” movie? Sometimes I feel like I’m competing with a ghost—the version of him I invented at age eight to protect myself from the reality of his flaws.
