The below names have been changed. The events are as I remember them and my interpretation — as with all memoirs.
A recent post describes the preceding events: First Death (formerly titled ‘Three Deaths’).
In April 2017, my older sister, Ann and younger brother, Michael and I were on a Zoom call preparing for my father’s Celebration of Life. A life I wasn’t a part of for the better part of 35 years.
Ann announced, “Apparently, Dad had a life insurance policy. Michael is the sole beneficiary1. It’s not worth much. I guess he’d had it since Michael was born.”
Jokes were made about Michael being the favourite, and the conversation continued.
That news stuck with me.
~~~
I was a “tomboy,” as girls like me were called back in the day. I loved to run everywhere and be outdoors. Dirty, bumped and bruised, I had skinned knees on the regular. I was on the rep soccer team. I wasn’t afraid of bugs or fish; I wanted to be close — to my Dad. I was the perfect son until I wasn’t.
My brother Michael arrived four years after me.
Suddenly, Dad had a son to raise and teach him how to be a boy. A tomboy isn’t a real boy. Not quite the son he wanted.
Dad came home from work each night, and he and my little brother would sit on the couch and “have a relationship.” They’d share some special time, sit together and chat until Dad lost interest behind his newspaper.
I watch them grow close. Resentment settled like a stone in my gut as I got older. I was jealous but didn’t recognize it. I was hard on myself, trying to 'be better.’
I learned to be entertaining: to be silly, to tell jokes, and to get attention at home and elsewhere. I was a good soccer player and student. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.
I grew distant. I’m not sure I could have identified the reason why, then. Like many teenagers, I did ‘sullen’ a lot. Now, I’m sure it was depression, but I never knew how to express it. I certainly didn’t have the skills to deal with it except to withdraw — a classic coping mechanism I use to this day.
The summer before my last year of high school, Dad found a new job in a different province. He’d gone on ahead to start work. We prepared to move and join him.
It was August. My belongings were in boxes and ready to go. We’d had tearful sendoffs from friends and anticipated living in a new place.
Mom called us into the kitchen one day and announced she and Dad were separating. We weren’t going anywhere. We had to face the shocked faces of friends and classmates as we returned to school in September.
Not long after, Dad visited and took us kids out to a local restaurant. We sat and ugly cried in public—humiliated again.
“We’re getting a divorce,” Mom announced after Dad left town.
I guess he never found the words to tell us over pizza and cokes.
“He’s met someone else. She has a family.”
A new family. Replaced again.
~~~
“Linda?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just wondering why he did that.”
“What, the insurance policy? Who knows, and now, we’ll never know.”
“Yeah.”
We see and hear things as children and adults. We make meaning out of those words and actions, whether intended or not. We never stop being our parents’ children.
I recently learned that the insurance policy was on Michael’s life. He was never the beneficiary. The policy was a tax shelter, not favouritism. But what I heard at that moment reinforced my long-held narrative as I grappled with a complicated relationship with my father and his sudden death.
I felt that your post covered a lot of backstory today. Not only for you but also for so many others that grew up in troubled families. 🙋🏽♂️
As I reflected on what you shared I thought that almost everyone in their heart of hearts wants and needs the love and acceptance of parents and teachers. Simply the recognition of our uniqueness and personhood.
Thank you for the excellent effort to share your life story with us. 😁
"Broken people do broken things" is a mantra I have kept for a long time. It helps explain...but does little to assuage the hurt. I'm so sorry you went through this.