Source: Pixabay
I'd just collapsed onto the couch when the buzzing against my thigh jolted me from a near-sleep. I was dressed in scrub pants and a plain T-shirt, and just noticed I'd left my phone in my back pocket because I was exhausted.
After four gruelling hours hunched over a car accident victim, my body ached in places I couldn't pinpoint, and my mind was muddled from too much caffeine and insufficient sleep.
At first, I disregarded the vibration, assuming it was the hospital calling me back for an emergency. But as I adjusted my weight and reached for the remote, my hip pressed harder against the phone, and the ringing abruptly stopped. Then a voice came from my pocket.
“Hello?” the voice called out. I hadn't heard it in two years, but would recognise it anywhere. “Is anyone there?”
My body froze. It was my father's voice, powerful and clear, with a slight rasp.
“Hello?” the voice repeated anxiously. “Alex? Is that you?”
Fumbling to retrieve the phone, I knocked over a half-empty glass of water on the centre table.
“Dammit,” I cursed under my breath, grabbing a rag from the kitchen as water dripped onto the hardwood floor in my living room.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and glanced at the screen in disbelief. The call timer was already ticking up.
I considered hanging up, blaming it on a butt dial, which to be honest, it was, and returning to the three years of silence we'd maintained since our last argument.
Instead, I took a deep breath and held the phone up to my ear. “Hey, Dad,” I said.
The accompanying silence was deafening. I imagined him in his study—sitting upright in his office chair, surrounded by research papers and academic journals.
Then he spoke. “Alex?” Dad said, sounding like a doctor calling out to a patient. “This… this is unexpected,” he stuttered. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything's fine,” I responded as I sat on the sofa's edge. “I didn't mean to call you,” I said. “It was a mistake.”
“I see,” he said in a calm, collected tone. “Well, mistakes happen everyday, right?” he chuckled.
What about the “mistake” of being born gay to a father who refused to accept me for who I am? I wanted to burst out, but I restrained myself.
“It's good to hear your voice,” he added. “How have you been?”
The question caught me off guard because in our family, affection was something that was rarely shown. What confused me though, was how casually the question was asked—as though we were buddies who'd just lost touch, rather than a father and son who'd hurled harsh words at each other the last time we spoke.
I dabbed at the spreading puddle on the table and said, “I've been busy. Just got back from a long shift—”
“At Memorial?” he interjected.
“Yeah,” I replied. “How'd you know?”
“Well,” he hesitated, “your mother mentioned you'd taken a position there and you're up for a promotion soon. Right?”
“Right.”
I hesitated for a moment, soaking in the idea that Dad was still talking about me with Mom. “I'm up for a supervisory role,” I said.
“That's great news, Alex,” he said, a note of genuine respect that surprised me in his voice.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. “Well, I should get going. It's been a long—”
“I was wrong, Alex,” Dad cut in, his voice unusually quiet.
“What?” I inquired, genuinely astonished by the remark.
“I was wrong,” he reiterated. “About everything I told you the last time we spoke. And I regret every moment of it.”
I was taken aback by his admission of guilt. In my twenty-nine years of life, I'd never heard Dad admit that he may be wrong about anything. He was always stoic and emphatic when he had an opinion about something or someone. Still, I wasn't in the mood to reminisce about the past, especially with the man who'd disowned me because of my sexual orientation and had refused to speak to me for years.
I cleared my throat and said, “Look, Dad, I didn't call to rehash the past.”
“I suppose you didn't,” he said. “But since we're speaking… I've been meaning to tell you about something.”
“What's that?” I asked, bracing myself for news of his retirement, or that he was terminally ill.
He hesitated before saying, “Your mother put me up to it, but I've been… I've been attending meetings.”
“Meetings?”
“It's a group for parents of… of people like you.”
“People… like me?” I asked, gripping the phone tightly.
“You know, LGBTQ meetings,” he said, pronouncing each letter as though it were in a foreign language he was learning.
“I see,” I replied, trying not to giggle at the formality in his voice.
“That's the correct term,” he said. “Isn't it?”
“Yes, Dad,” I inhaled. “That's the correct term.”
I closed my eyes and thought of all the times I'd asked for my father's approval just to be told I wasn't meeting his standards.
He went on. "It's been... educational. I’ve even learned terminology and perspectives. Ways I've been... rigid in my thinking."
"Dad—"
"Let me finish, please." His voice softened. "I'm not saying I understand everything. I suppose what I'm saying is that I'm making an effort. Your mother warned me I could either change or lose you for good, and I don't want that.”
“Neither do I,” I replied.
“You know, she's always been right about stuff like this, too,” he added.
Now I did laugh. "Yeah, she has. And she told me about the meetings."
“She did?”
“Yes, Dad,” I replied. "She did."
He sighed, and for once, it didn't seem like he was upset, but tired of our feud.
"I've also been thinking about the last time we spoke,” he continued, “and what I said to you.”
“It's water under the bridge, Dad.”
“No, it's not. You didn't deserve what I did. And I'm sorry about that.”
After a brief period of silence, I finally said, “That means a lot to me, Dad. Thanks.”
"Maybe we can meetup sometime for a cup of coffee," he replied.
"I'd very much like that."
Another moment of silence. Then he said, “I should let you rest. "I'm sure you've had a long day.”
“Yeah,” I said, reluctant to end the call, “It's been a long day.”
“Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm glad you called today.”
I smiled. “Me too, Dad.”
After hanging up, I remained still on my couch, looking at the drying puddle of spilled water on the floor.
Setting the phone down, I finally changed out of my scrubs and turned on the TV, but I was unable to concentrate on the images on the screen. Instead, my thoughts turned to the moments before I told my father I was gay, which resulted in us disagreeing about my sexuality and eventually falling out.
Those were happy times. And though my father's words and actions in the past had deeply upset me, I suddenly found myself hoping we could return to those days.
My phone suddenly buzzed. Dad texted: "The group meets Thursdays at 7. At the community center. If you're ever interested."
I read the message again, comprehending what it meant. This wasn't just an invitation. It was an offer to witness his efforts to repair our damaged relationship.
That night, as I slid under the covers, I experienced something I hadn't felt in the three years since I'd last spoken to my father: the potential of our relationship returning to normal.
Before heading out for work the next morning, I added a new entry to my calendar: “Group Meetings, Thursdays, 7pm, Community Centre.”
So touching, no matter what happens the relationship between parents and children are always touching when strained and parents always look for to fix whatever the problem is, just a butt cal has allowed Dad to fix what went wrong.
Thanks for taking the time out to read.🙏🏾
Your welcome
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Quite a touching story. A fateful coincidence.
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