I don't know the answer to that. What was I hoping for? An apology? An explanation?
Yesterday evening, as you may know, was the annual visit of doom by my father. I don't think he means it to be annual, I think it's more that roughly every year he has some kind of business that brings him back to this country and while he's here he sees his family.
He seemed in good form. I don't know if that helped me or not. At best I thought, maybe I was just overreacting or making up all the abuse. At worst it made me feel more sad about the void between us.
He brought everyone gifts. When he got the bag out, I thought: "I hope he's not planning on trying to buy his way back into my good books", but secretly, I was excited about the prospect of the gift from my father.
It turned out I needn't have bothered being worried or excited because he didn't have a gift for me anyway.
He had a gift for everyone except me.
I wasn't surprised when I thought about it. I wanted to cry but I politely commented on how lovely the presents were. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe it will help me to realise he doesn't care.
But it hurts more to think it's not that he is unable to be loving or caring; it's actually just me that he doesn't love or care about.
And then I got to thinking again and wondering what I did wrong in my life to deserve to be hated by my own father.
And today I went to work with swollen eyes and a throbbing arm because tears come rarely but like a monsoon bringing a pain unbearable that can only be dealt with by causing some other pain to take it's place.
Well now I can start to forget him again until next time. But I don't think my arm is going to forget so quickly.