I never knew my mother, and my father never spoke about her. All I knew was that she had been very beautiful, because of the picture that hung on my father’s study wall, and that she had died very young.<\/p>\n
My father was a sad man, a quiet and distant man. I wanted him to notice me, and to love me, but he never did. He rarely spoke to me beyond the perfunctory hello and goodbye, good morning and goodnight. I would have given anything for him to sweep me into his arms and tell me he loved me.<\/p>\n
This strange and strained relationship with my father continued until I was 18, and by then I was a sad and lonely young woman who believed my father hated me. If my father didn’t love me, who would?<\/p>\n
But the answer to all my questions was about to be delivered in the most painful and cruel way. My father was hosting a party for his business associates, and among them was a woman whom I knew slightly.<\/p>\n
If you don’t leave the past behind you, you deny yourself a future.
\nI had the feeling that she and my father had a past together — or at least that she wished they did. She greeted me and we started chatting — inconsequential talk about nothing special — and my father walked by.<\/p>\n
I gave him my best smile, but he immediately glanced away. The woman saw it all. “Do you know why?” she asked.<\/p>\n
“Why what?” I asked, confused.<\/p>\n
“Why he hates you,” she said.<\/p>\n
“My father doesn’t hate me!” I exclaimed. “He’s just not a very demonstrative man.”<\/p>\n
“So you don’t know…” she smiled. It was the ugliest smile I’d ever seen. I was about to walk away when she said, “He believes you killed your mother, Karen.”
\nI stopped in my tracks. “What?” I gasped.<\/p>\n
“Your mother died giving birth to you, surely you know that?” she said.<\/p>\n
“No…” I answered. “No, I didn’t know.” I turned my back on her and went looking for my grandmother, my father’s mother, the woman who’d raised me and never told me about my mother’s death.<\/p>\n
“How did my mother die?” I asked her angrily. “Was it in childbirth?”<\/p>\n
My grandmother shook her head. “Please Karen, your father asked me never to speak of this with you.”<\/p>\n
“I have the right to know about my own mother!” I cried. “I have the right to know why my father hates me!”<\/p>\n
Then a quiet angry voice behind me said, “I don’t hate you, Karen, but your mother’s death is none of your business:”<\/p>\n
I turned to face my father. “My mother’s death is none of my business? You’re wrong! I killed her, didn’t I? That’s what you think each time you look at me!”<\/p>\n
The expression in his eyes sent me running out of the door. I got into my car and drove aimlessly, tears running down my face. In my distress, I didn’t see the oncoming car changing lanes until it was too late.<\/p>\n
I woke up in the hospital linked to a beeping machine, with a dull promise of pain twinging through my whole body. Sitting by my side and holding my hand was my father.<\/p>\n
“Karen,” he said softly, “Thank God you’re alright!”<\/p>\n
“Daddy…” I whispered, “you’re here!”<\/p>\n
Tears came into his eyes. “Of course I’m here. I don’t hate you, Karen. I love you. And I don’t blame you for your mother’s death, I blame myself. When your mom and I married we were very poor.<\/p>\n
“All we had were dreams and our love for each other. Then she fell pregnant and I took on a second job. I knew we’d need the money when you came along. I was working 16-hour days and she spent a lot of time alone.<\/p>\n
“So one day when I came home she wasn’t there. A neighbor had taken her to the hospital. When I got there it was all over. Your mother had died, and I hadn’t been there for her.<\/p>\n
“I didn’t blame you, Karen, I blamed myself. I was determined I wasn’t going to fail you the way I’d failed her, so I threw myself into my work, and I became a rich man.<\/p>\n
“Daddy, how could you blame yourself?” I asked. “There was nothing you could have done!”<\/p>\n
“I could have been there, holding her hand the way I’m holding yours now,” he said.<\/p>\n
“But daddy…” I hesitated, “you were always so angry with me, so cold. You ran away from me.”<\/p>\n
“Karen, you look just like your mother, and each time I looked at you, my heart was torn apart by grief and guilt. It took nearly losing you to make me realize what I’d done. I love you.”<\/p>\n
For the first time in my life, my father put his arms around me and showed me that he loved me. It was a new beginning for both of us, and I like to believe my mother was smiling down from heaven.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I never knew my mother, and my father never spoke about her. All I knew was that she had been very beautiful, because of the picture that hung on my father’s study wall, and that she had died very young. My father was a sad man, a quiet and distant man. I wanted him to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":5930,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5929","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-tales"],"yoast_head":"\n