The Ghost of Fathers Past (Now With Medical Updates)

Just when you think you’ve successfully removed someone from your life, blocked, archived, emotionally deleted, they reappear like a system notification you absolutely did not subscribe to.

My biological father popped back up.

After years of lies, emotional gymnastics, and behavior that can best be summarized as “chronic dickishness,” I made it very clear: stay away.

We had no contact.

And honestly? I was fine.

Then Christmas rolls around and suddenly I’m on a video call with a 75-year-old man in a wheelchair telling me he has lung cancer. Also a heart attack.

Also a stroke.

Because when he does drama, he commits to the trilogy.

So I did what mature, emotionally evolved adults do.

I became the bigger person.

I listened.

I encouraged chemotherapy when he wasn’t sure.

I tried to keep it humane. Civil. Reasonable.

And for about five minutes, I thought maybe this was going to be one of those redemptive third-act storylines.

It wasn’t.

Because here’s the thing nobody says out loud:

Cancer does not turn an asshole into a saint.

It turns him into an asshole with cancer.

Now the daily demands are creeping in.

The passive aggression is back like it never left.

The emotional gravity is pulling at me again.

And I’m standing here thinking:

Do I play happy family because he’s probably dying?

Do I perform Daughter of the Year while quietly resenting every minute?

Is this what fate looks like?

Blood is not automatically thicker than water.

Sometimes it’s just… thicker manipulation.

I don’t feel love.

I don’t feel rage.

Mostly I feel a dull pity.

And a strong awareness that I was actually happier when he wasn’t in my life.

That part matters.

Society loves a dying-parent redemption arc.

It hands you the script and expects you to cry on cue.

Forgive everything. Wrap it in a bow.

But dying doesn’t erase decades of behavior. It just puts a deadline on it.

And I refuse to abandon myself just because someone else is sick.

I am dealing with my own Breastcancer at the moment.

If I stay in contact, it will be on my terms. Structured. Limited. Boundaried.

Not emotional open bar.

Being compassionate does not require self-destruction.

Being the bigger person does not mean lying flatter.

Maybe this isn’t about faith.

Maybe it’s about choice.

I can choose to show up without surrendering.

I can choose to help without absorbing.

I can choose distance without guilt.

The only thing I refuse to choose is pretending.

If there is a final chapter here, it will not be written at the expense of my peace.

And if that makes me the villain in someone else’s story?

I’ve survived worse roles, this is no Hallmark movie.