That was last July (2004). About a month after, I was foolishly upstairs again. Mom, Dad and I were having some conversation or another. Dad was testy to begin with, then Mom started asking unreasonable questions like what he wanted to do with the stuff in the garage and whether or not he'd like to have the garage cleaned out so that the Young Prince could come down, clean it up and make it into an apartment. So, Dad was pissy about that� it's his garage, his stuff, don't touch it, don't even talk about touching it, don't hint that he should move anything because, after all, he didn't have anything in the entire house, that garage was the only thing that was his.

*rolls her eyes*

I've lost count of how many times I've heard that particular argument.

Anyway, instead of going downstairs, which would be my usual reaction/action/flight, I stayed upstairs, intent on overcoming my learned behavior. Because Mom was "attacking" Dad with those outrageous questions (you really should get the whole sarcasm thing by now), he had to turn an attack on me. So, he started sniping about the state of my room and how disgraceful it was.

I again denied the impulse to go downstairs, in the name of unlearning some behavior. Mom jumped to my defense with a simple statement� something like, "You're one to talk, where do you think she learned that?"

He was more angry, I wasn't leaving, he tried trumping her with another attack on me� some obscure passage about how children are supposed to respect their elders. ("obscure" is the sarcasm there). I responded � so very foolishly� with something akin to, "Yes, but a Father is supposed to love his child."

You can see how incredibly violent I was. (come on, more sarcasm)

He grumbled and growled and shot back with, "You're not my child."

Time stopped. That was the last straw for me. The relationship was over. About August, maybe the end of July, of last year� I was done. No more.

You're right, Dad, I'm not your child. You've spent the past, what, 24 years proving that to me? You're right. It makes sense now. Thank you for clarifying that for me.

Time stuttered onward again. Mom was concerned about whether or not I was hurt. She made some comment. I may have made a comment, I don't remember� but Dad responded with something� some qualifier for his statement. It didn't register.

I looked at Mom and smiled a faint, far-away smile. Everything clicked together in that instant. I knew my role. I knew where I stood with him. There was no doubt.

That's where it started. My not caring. My complete lack of concern for his welfare.

He was right. I'm not his child. Since I was nine years old, I wasn't his child. Since the day he chose money and possessions over God and family� I haven't been his child.

So, jump forward to September (2004) and the Feast� the conversation about sin vs. sinners� I was able to remain in the room, quietly stating my opinion, quietly but openly crying, because his threats, his barbs, his button pushing didn't have the same effect. I wasn't his child.

Forward to the end of October (2004), he chose to go up to Seattle to allegedly support the Young Prince who was (and still is) going through a really nasty divorce. Life is wonderful. Dad stayed gone for� well, until well after January.

Of course, I'd estimate that about ten weeks of that time was spent in various hospitals. Heart trouble, ignored. Amputation of a toe due to diabetic difficulties, he still doesn't have diabetes, you know. Further amputation because they didn't get it all, he still doesn't have the blasted D-word, damn it. Infection, he's not sick! Serious infection, okay, maybe he's a little sick. Unending and violently uncontrollable diarrhea, okay, maybe he's actually sick. C-dif (a violently infectious intestinal virus� usually contracted in nursing homes where nurse/staff hygiene isn't too stringent), okay, he's really sick.

He finally got rid of the C-dif, but after nearly three months in hospitals and nursing homes, he had lost a lot of weight and had no strength. He couldn't walk� had a wheel chair. He moved in with the Young Prince and stayed up there for a while longer.

Early February, a week after he decided he was strong enough to drive, he came down for a weekend. Not a week later he was back in the hospital, swelling in the leg, massive and rapid weight gain (bloating) and other such nasties. He was released after a week or two.

End of February he comes back down here� he's weak and stressed out� has to move two storage rooms' worth of stuff into a different storage room by Sunday night� Friday, Saturday and Sunday the Young Prince does the work. I contact a few acquaintances who help� with the help, the storage rooms are cleared out. Dad goes back up north and within two weeks he's back in the hospital.

Near the end of March his Mother dies. He comes down here for a weekend. During that weekend Mom, Dad and I are out at breakfast and he gets this horridly pathetic look on his face and in a twisted parody of a forlorn child says, "I'm an orphan."

I nearly choked on my blueberry blintz. Are you kidding me? You're sixty-five effing years old, quit the pity party, buster.

I didn't say anything, but I definitely felt no sympathy for the man. If he'd have said he was lonely, or that he missed his mother or that he was confused� I could have responded more politely to that� as it was� the whole melodramatic "orphan" thing� man that steamed me.

Still, I didn't say anything. I didn't even make a face� then.

He spent the next month planning his mother's funeral/memorial service. He was going to have one in Seattle, one in Spokane (where her family is) and one here at the Beach� Mom cut that off (for which I was very grateful). He decided on a single Memorial service in Spokane.

That was good news for me. It meant I wouldn't have to go. (long story there� no relationship with his parents� not much of one with his brothers even� I've never really been a part of that family� Mom hasn't either� by their choice, not ours).

Sometime between March and April Dad went back into the hospital for some thing or other.

The first few times� November, December, January, February, I prayed earnestly for him. Haven't put much effort into it since.

Oh� back in January, I wrote a long and loving letter to him. I don't remember if I posted it here or not. The gist was that I told him that I forgave him for the Silver Dollar incident (the family-fracturing event when I was 9), that I asked for forgiveness for my part in that whole fiasco (inability to stop him, lack of courage), and then I spent another six pages detailing between 15 and 20 things I 1, admired about him� things that made me proud that he was my father, and 2, remembered about he and I� things that he and I did together that I really enjoyed. I concluded the letter by saying that I wanted to fix the damage in our relationship� that I wanted to be family. I asked him to tell me five things he liked about me� that made him proud, and five things he remember us doing together.

The Young Prince told me how wonderful the letter was, how healing it was, how good it made Dad feel� Dad still hasn't told me five things he likes about me or five memories of us. He hasn't even said/remembered one.

But, that's okay� I'm not his kid, remember? (no, I'm not bitter!)

So� near the end of April, Dad and the Young Prince were down here for a weekend. The conversation turned (due to the brother) to the Silver Dollar incident (very briefly).

Dad asked, "Did I ever apologize to you for that?"

I said, "No."

He nodded and turned to a different subject. I didn't say anything.

His mother's memorial is set for the weekend after Mother's Day. He wants me to sing. I don't want to. I tried telling Mom that I really, really, really didn't want to do it. Then, I got a "gig" at the church across the river. They wanted me to sing for their Mother's Day Tea. Great� so sorry Dad� gotta sing here at home.

Mom said I had to sing at the memorial. Fine.