A post in which I get serious. Sorry.

I had just settled in for the evening. A piece of pizza, Diet Coke, and Portal 2: it doesn't get much better. Then my cell phone rang. 


"I thought I should tell you that your grandfather has died."


It was my father and he delivered this bit of information coolly and in the same disinterested tone he used for everything: relaying the news of my mother's passing, scolding for unfinished chores, or ordering dinner at a restaurant. The only emotion his voice betrayed was annoyance at having to speak to me at all. 

My relationship with my father (and my mother before she died) is contentious at best; toxic if I’m going to be honest. They’re not bad people—they're just the sort who's always over their heads. This resulted in a malaise and frustration with life that was palatable in our little nuclear family.

When I was growing up, my parents’ relationship always seemed to be on the verge of destruction. The glue that kept them together was the fact that my mother was completely dependent on my father: she didn’t work, drive, or have any interests outside of “The Young & the Restless.” Despite her random bursts of rage and need to be the center of everything, my father--knowing she would be helpless without him--stayed. For that I give him credit.

A central theme of my childhood was my parents’ need to blame the problems they had created on everyone and anything other than themselves. They ran from the creditors who were “out to get them.” We moved every six months because a new house would make my mother happier.

At a certain age (perhaps when I became old enough to question the logic of running away from everything) they turned their anger on me. Nothing violent--they were never physically abusive--but, quite literally, everything was my fault and my problem to fix. If they were fighting, I had to act as mediator. When my mother insisted on taking out my first 10-speed (purchased with saved birthday and lawn-mowing money) out for its maiden voyage, it was my fault she crashed and ruined her favorite blouse. (Nothing was said for the wobbly wheel that never was repaired.) My brother’s bad performance in school was a direct result of my good work--he couldn't reach the standard I had set earlier with his teachers. My mother quit her first--and only--job because the clothes I had bought for her were “ugly.” When they would run out of money every month? I’d hand over my after-school and weekend, saving-for-college paycheck.

I moved out at 17. Everyone thought that would be best.

They continued to ask for money. Soon that was the only reason they would call. They moved to California and couldn't be bothered to come back for my wedding unless I paid their way and let them stay in our house while we were on our honeymoon. After that, other than a few very awkward phone calls, we didn’t speak much.

Three weeks before my mother died, my father called to tell me she had cancer. She’d been sick for two years.

“I thought I should tell you,” he said.

My mother had had cancer scares before. More to the point, every ache and pain was a self-diagnosis of cancer. Several years before, she had called claiming she was very ill. It turned out not to be true....then.

 My husband and I rushed down. Our first visit was with my parents and the hospice nurse, who kept having to stop her explanation of my mother's care to make room for my father's complaints. Did we know how long he had been looking after her? Did we know how hard taking care of her was? The hospice nurse was noticieably frustrated. She passed me her card. “Call me if there’s a problem.”

The rest of the trip did not go well. Mom was weak but lucid enough to imply her cancer was likely brought on by the stress of having me as a daughter. Their house smelled like death. My father brooded.

Three weeks later she died, but not before nurses intervened and took her from my parents’ home to a hospice facility. My father was seemingly unbothered by her screaming in pain when the meds just weren’t enough. He would talk with me over the phone in his usual “could I get a side of fries with that?” voice while my mother howled in the background. Needless to say, I used the card.

Now I was on the phone with my dad as he explained how his father had died that afternoon of a heart attack in the parking lot of a Japanese restaurant. My grandfather, a Marine colonel who fought in World War II, was 97.

A couple years before he’d had a stroke. While he had never come back completely, he was still able to stay in his home with a full-time nurse. My father made a point of stressing his days of sacrifice taking care of my grandfather.

There would be a service. I was not invited.

As it usually does with my parents, the conversation turned to money. It turns out, for some reason, my grandfather's nurse's son-in-law is the executor of the will. When I asked why, my father told me it was all very complicated and I couldn’t possibly understand.

“We know what it says though. All of the family and (the nurse) is included. Except you, that is,” he said. “Speaking of that, did you receive my will?”

A few months before, my father had left a message saying he was sending me his will in the mail. When it arrived, I wasn’t terribly shocked to find I wasn’t included. While there was no surprise, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little hurt that my existence was wiped clean from the document that would represent his life. I wanted to ask him why; not why I wasn’t  a beneficiary—I don’t care about his money—but what was the point of sending it to me in the first place?

It wasn’t a great time, but he clearly didn’t care about my feelings so I took my opportunity.

“You mean the one that I’m not mentioned in? Yeah, I got it.”

"Yeah, that one. Good, good."

I paused.

“Why did you even send it? What was the point?”

Without missing a beat: “I thought I should tell you.”