I have a fantastic dad.  Just today, he took my shift so I could take some time and spend it with my two year old son.  The funeral industry is tough on families.  The hours, the stress and the demands make it difficult to maintain promises and invest the time we should invest into our family.

So, to be a good father and a good funeral director is nearly an impossible task that my father has somehow managed to achieve.  And I’m thankful.  I’m thankful because I’ve seen enough stories at the funeral home, and met with enough families to know that not everyone has good parents.

Some have parents have estranged their family for good reason: Abuse.  Neglect.  Pride.  Drugs.  Alcohol.   Here’s one of the those stories that comes anonymously from Reddit that’s entitled, “I’m not coming to your funeral, Dad. Here’s why.“:  (language warning) 

Dear Dad,

I’m not going to your funeral. I’m not going to cry for you like everyone wants and expects me to. Instead, I’m going to go to a lavish date with my amazing boyfriend, who loves me more than you ever did. In case you’re curious, Dad, I’m going to tell you why this is so.

I was your little girl, yes. I loved you like little girls always do. I painted you pictures of the two of us together, holding hands, because I saw it on television and thought that you’d like them. You drank. Oh god, did you drink. Stinking bottles of vodka and rum and whiskey and whatever else would go down your throat that would make it sting and burn. Remember how you made us starve, Dad? Remember when you spent all of our grocery money on booze, Dad? I do.

Do you remember your son, Patrick? He was named after you. God, what an ego you had. When I was younger, I used to call him “Patty”, because I couldn’t pronounce his name fully. He called himself Pat as he got older – I suppose trying to distance himself from “Rick”. He was my protector. He loved me the way you were supposed to.

You never touched me, Dad. You saved it all for him, didn’t you? You screamed at him for not doing well enough in school, for not picking up his room, for his “bad” personality traits, for being himself. You beat him. I don’t remember all of those arguments now. All I know is that one day, Pat left. And he never came home.

Did you feel guilty that he killed himself? Did you feel guilty that he didn’t do it at home, that the top of a building felt safer for him? Did you feel guilty that he jumped to get away from you? Maybe, just maybe, to get away from all of us.

He was sixteen. He liked to read. Obscure fantasy, books with lots of adventure and lots of dragons and heroes with swords. He deserved an adventure more than any of us did. His room was small and bare, because he was forced to pass military inspections from you. I searched his room when you weren’t around. I knew all of his hidey holes. I found his comic books. I found his drawings. I found rubber band balls and school papers and little action figures that you get at those vending machines for a quarter. I never found a suicide note. And God, I wish I had it. I wish I’d known. I wish he’d told me, even though I was too young to understand.

I don’t blame him for this, Dad. I blame you. It’s your fault that he’s not here. It’s your fault he won’t laugh, or get married, or cry. Ever. He’d dead because of you. You screamed at me once that he made a choice to kill himself, to be unhappy. But he never chose. You cried at his funeral and you were such a fantastic actor, weren’t you? Everybody was fooled. They thought you were a loving father and Pat was the tragic teenager that nobody could understand.

And Mom. I can’t blame you for any of this. I can’t even blame you for being sad at his funeral – you were married for 27 years. I think you tried to protect us. You cooked his favorite meals. You slaved in the kitchen. You were submissive and meek and everything that he wanted you to be. Dad got rid of any rebellion in you long ago. I’m sorry I’m not there, Mom. If I were to show up for anyone, it would be for you. I wish I had gotten to meet you before Dad got to you.

There’s not only one death on your conscience, Dad. I remember when you had our 12-month old puppy put down because it was “too noisy”. Maybe, if Pat had had a friend, he would still be alive. Maybe the three of us would show up at the funeral together, an old dog that loved you, and children that loved you. But instead, I have to be haunted by their ghosts. I have to feel responsible. You aren’t allowed to die and get away from this.

Fuck you, Dad. Fuck your miserable existence. Fuck you for every time you hit my brother. Fuck you for every time you insulted me. Fuck you for destroying my mother. Fuck you for everything you put me through, fuck you for all of the family members that think I’m selfish, and fuck you for killing the only two living things that really loved me. Fuck every drink that went down your throat and every drawing I ever made of you. Fuck you for everything you stole from me. And, last of all, fuck your death. I don’t care. You don’t deserve it.

That’s why I’m not coming to your funeral, Dad. Remember those fake tears that you cried at Pat’s funeral? I hope every last family member at your funeral is crying those fake tears for you.

Signed, Your (Ex) Daughter

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