Catharsis

Dear Kay,  
Oh, the benefits of hindsight.    
If only I had known back then what I know now!    
    
Three questions I would have asked you    
before you died:    
     
~What are all of your favourite things?    
I'm sure your son would love to know.    
~Would you do it all again?    
~How do I begin my career without my mentor?    
A booklet of pointers would be great!    
     
Three things I would have told you    
before you left us for ever:    
     
~Your son and husband will be fine.  After a suitable mourning period, we will become a blended family and take care of each other.    
~I will carry on your life's work for as long as I have breath.    
~You are my inspiration. That moment in 1992 changed my life for good.  A quarter of a century after your death, I still get upset sometimes.    
     
I think you would be immensely proud of your enormous legacy.    
Always and for ever,    
E    
     
     
Dear Rufus,    
I was pleasantly surprised    
to see you last week      
and realise that we finally get along.    
It really didn't work so well    
when we were younger, did it?    
     
Too different? Too alike?    
Who knows?      
But the point is    
that you always thought it OK    
to mention all my failings,    
pounce upon my weaknesses    
and expect me to improve.    
     
It's been fourteen years    
since the most hurtful episode,    
and I can finally say    
that it's OK    
and I forgive you.    
What still stings      
is not getting a chance    
to defend myself    
without splitting a family apart.    
     
So I'm telling you now:    
your wife is lovely,      
but can be selfish, spoilt and a martyr.    
That is why      
I do not like to come and stay.    
You said we were inconsiderate and ungrateful    
but conveniently forgot the times    
we cleaned up,      
put the hoover round,    
bathed and entertained your kids,    
babysat    
and I could go on.    
     
The next time    
you have an issue with us,    
kindly tell it to my husband    
instead of me.    
After all, you're married to his sister.    
Even better,      
have her do it herself.    
I suspect you came to me    
because he would have laughed it off    
and your words would have had no impact.    
Well, they did.    
     
     
Dear Dad,    
Oh who am I kidding?    
Let's start that again.    
     
Dear Sperm Donor,    
(and I don't really mean the Dear)...    

Dear Sperm Donor,    
Hmm, that's no way to start a letter.      
How about just...    
     
HELLO!    
It's very strange      
to sit and reflect upon our relationship    
now that it is definitively over.    
While I'm grateful for my life,    
You were irresponsible,    
a total liability,    
and far, far worse.    
It's not difficult to make a baby—    
most people can.    
It's much harder to be a parent    
and some people are incapable of that.    
     
I thought we were just four,    
from three different mothers,      
but no! there are far more    
and you have not been a dad    
to any of us.    
     
Too fond of drinking    
but completely able to stop when it suited you,    
it became an excuse for your violent, warped tendencies    
which were there all along.    
You didn't know I knew,    
but I heard about the pet rabbit    
whose neck you snapped just to impress a friend    
when you were TEN years old.    
     
I knew about the wife beating,    
the times in prison    
and the recall to jail  
for beating up a police officer  
the day after you were released.  
I sense my mum's trauma,    
hear of her broken bones    
and lost teeth.    
I admire her tenacity    
and her ability to rise above it all    
to be enough for me and my sister.    
     
I wanted to give you a chance—    
to decide for myself whether you had changed;    
whether it was possible to build a relationship.    
I wrote you many letters,    
and you responded positively.    
Before too long though,      
letters weren't enough.    
     
You demanded phone calls    
so I called you    
even though there was no benefit to me.    
You begged for my number    
so I gave it to you one Christmas.    
In your narcissism,      
you delighted in calling me regularly    
to spend two hours telling me      
about your pigeons,    
your expired passport    
and what you'd received in the mail that week.    
     
That should have been an indication    
that you never cared about any of us,    
or indeed anybody apart from yourself.    
You started nagging me to meet up with you,    
which I duly arranged.    
Visiting the castle was fun,    
and going out for dinner was OK    
but you weren't good company.    
It was all about you getting your three pints of beer for lunch    
and bragging rights about meeting your daughter.    
We didn't get along,    
I just didn't like you very much,    
but of course you wanted more.    
     
This is almost where it ended...    
we continued to write,      
and you CAMPAIGNED for us to visit you,    
to stay for a week.    
I finally wrote back    
saying no thank you,    
I was happy as I was.    
That was the wrong answer!    
Apparently I ruined your life.    
     
I took the coward's way out.    
When we moved house,  
I conveniently didn't inform you.    
The redirected mail    
ensured that I received your subsequent rants    
but eventually they stopped.    
     
I was young and naive—    
Had I waited twenty more years,    
I would have had the confidence    
to tell you what's what,    
to call you out on the violence,    
the drinking,      
the unrepentant prison stints,    
the fact that you were never there for me    
and never loved me.    
     
Was my life enriched      
by having met you?    
I really don't know.    
     
When you died,    
Nobody bothered to inform me      
until four months later.    
It took a text from my half sister half a world away    
to get the message across.    
I didn't feel grief,    
but conversely not relief.    
I honestly didn't know how to feel,    
except philosophical about the loss of a life;    
the loss of someone's husband    
and someone's brother.    
But a dad?    
No, you were never one of those.