So Anyway, I Rang My Dad (Again)

 So.

I rang my dad again.

I know. Growth is a journey. Apparently a repetitive one.

Not a birthday. Not a dramatic date. Just a random day — which in hindsight was bold of me. Therapy didn’t cure hope. Rude.

He answered.

“Who is it?”

Always reassuring when the man who helped make you needs a hint.

“Dad.”

“What do you want?”

Straight in. No hello. Like I’d called to complain about something he’d already decided was my fault.

I did the calm thing. The healed thing. Explained I’m not who I was five years ago. Or even last year. I’ve grown. Reflected. Learned to regulate. Learned when to shut up. Learned that silence sometimes means dignity and not dissociation (progress).

He said he was at work.

Told me to call later.

Hung up.

Efficient. Minimal. On brand.

And yes — like an absolute idiot — I believed him.

Hope turned up briefly. Hovered. Didn’t sit down. Just said, Maybe this time, then watched me embarrass myself.

I rang later.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Call ended.

No argument.

No shouting.

Just premium-grade silence.

---

Here’s the bit people hate:

I don’t half-arse effort. I’ve reached out for years. Different versions of me. Loud me. Angry me. Calm me. Healing me. The me who learned not to cry mid-sentence because apparently that ruins your credibility.

None of them worked.

I’ve been told I “made myself clear” in 2019 — which is fascinating, considering I’ve spent every year since ringing, messaging, and being ignored.

But okay.

And then that thought pops up, like a popup ad you can’t close:

How bad do you have to be for both parents to opt out?

It doesn’t scream.

It just sits there. Judging.

---

Two days later — plot twist — he didn’t call me.

He texted Dave.

Not to ask how I was.

Not to fix anything.

No.

He told Dave to show the message to my therapist.

And to look up the word narcissist.

Which is honestly impressive.

Nothing says emotional maturity like diagnosing your daughter via Google and a third party. Very efficient. Very 2012 Facebook comment energy.

I didn’t need the full message. I knew the vibe.

It was an explanation where he made sense and I was the issue. Responsibility carefully avoided. Narrative preserved.

And weirdly?

That helped.

Because it confirmed what I’ve been circling forever:

He can communicate.

He just doesn’t want to do it with me.

---

That’s when hope finally left.

No drama. No crying. No last attempt.

It just read the room and fucked off.

Because this wasn’t bad timing.

Or work.

Or me saying the wrong thing.

It was a choice.

A choice not to talk to me.

A choice to talk about me instead.

A choice to stay comfortable.

And that’s when it landed:

Maybe I didn’t lose my dad.

Maybe the dad I keep trying to reach only ever existed in my head.

Not because I’m dramatic.

But because sometimes kids invent safer versions of people when the real ones are unreliable.

Bleak.

But explains a lot.

---

So here’s where I’ve landed:

I didn’t fail as a daughter.

I didn’t imagine love for fun.

And I didn’t outgrow my place by healing.

If I created a daddy’s girl in my head, it was because I needed her to survive.

And if that version doesn’t exist in real life, that’s not on me.

I showed up.

I stayed calm.

I tried.

And now?

I’m heading into 2026.

And he’s staying in 2019.

Anyway.

My tea went cold.