I wonder how many times I felt rejected during my final meeting with my father…
ONE: I hugged my father and felt no emotion in return from him, even though we hadn't seen each other in five years.
TWO: My father said he wouldn’t be coming back to NJ and didn’t invite me to Florida to visit him. He was cool as a cucumber as he was telling me he didn’t ever want to see me again.
THREE: Not long after he sat down, his cell phone rang. Of course, he just had to answer it.
FOUR: I told my father how happy I was to see him. He didn’t say the same about me.
FIVE: My father didn’t ask me anything about how I was doing.
SIX: I showed him pictures of my accomplishments. He didn’t offer me any praise.
SEVEN: When I showed him a pic of Gov. Whitman presenting me with a medal, he said, "It’s a shame the government can’t help you more."
EIGHT: I showed my father my birth certificate and, for the umpteenth time, told him how much I needed to have my name changed to his and have his name listed as my legal father. His response was, "You better put that away somewhere safe."
NINE: I told my father how I need a family and a sense of identity and belonging. He didn’t respond at all.
TEN: I shared how every single day I cry about being rejected by my family and my father's only response was, "Don't cry."
ELEVEN: My father stepped out to answer another phone call.
TWELVE: He gave me a birthday card, almost 8 weeks late, with $25 in it. He’s a very wealthy man who lavishes his other children with all sorts of extravagances.
THIRTEEN: He gave my friend $40 for driving me. Obviously, he thought my friend, a complete stranger to him, was of more value than me.
FOURTEEN: When I informed my father that his youngest daughter (my sister) and I have been emailing each other, he said, "I won’t say anything." I continue to be the shameful secret.
FIFTEEN: My father regaled my friend with the story of how he made a "stupid, stupid mistake" in 1960 when I was conceived.
SIXTEEN: Once again, my father took another phone call.
SEVENTEEN: He rushed through the lunch, only ordering a small cup of soup. He wanted to get away from me as fast as possible.
EIGHTEEN: I asked to see my grandmother who lives close to the restaurant where we were lunching. I haven’t seen her since I was about three years old. My father said no. I asked to see my uncle who lives with my grandmother. I haven't seen him for about fifteen years. My father said my uncle was too busy working (couldn’t he have eaten lunch with us, even though he was working?)
NINETEEN: When I hugged my father at the end of our meal, once again, I didn’t feel any emotion from him, even though he had decided he would never see me again.
TWENTY: In the parking lot, I said, "I love you, Dad." He said, "Love you too," without any love whatsoever in his voice.
TWENTY-ONE: He then started quickly dialing away on his cell.
So there it is, during that one lunch (the last time I will ever see my father), I felt rejected at lease twenty-one times. No wonder I was so exhausted afterward. I still haven’t recovered.