He died in November. I flew home. I did everything that needed to be done — arrangements, family coordination, receiving visitors, catering, the church service.
At the burial I smiled and accepted condolences and said the right things and held my mother and was strong.
I have not cried yet. Six months later.
People told me I was "so strong." A relative called me "the pillar of the family." My mother depends on how composed I am.
But here is what I know and cannot say: my relationship with my father was complicated in ways I have never been able to explain to anyone. He was not a monster. He also was not what I needed him to be. And his death did not clarify those feelings — it just suspended them in place, unresolved.
I don't know if I am grieving or avoiding. I don't know if the absence of tears means something is wrong with me or if I processed something years before he died that left me empty of the expected response.
I just know that six months later I still haven't cried. And some nights that terrifies me. And some nights it doesn't.
At the burial I smiled and accepted condolences and said the right things and held my mother and was strong.
I have not cried yet. Six months later.
People told me I was "so strong." A relative called me "the pillar of the family." My mother depends on how composed I am.
But here is what I know and cannot say: my relationship with my father was complicated in ways I have never been able to explain to anyone. He was not a monster. He also was not what I needed him to be. And his death did not clarify those feelings — it just suspended them in place, unresolved.
I don't know if I am grieving or avoiding. I don't know if the absence of tears means something is wrong with me or if I processed something years before he died that left me empty of the expected response.
I just know that six months later I still haven't cried. And some nights that terrifies me. And some nights it doesn't.
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