Before I go any further, let me make one thing absolutely clear: I had an incredible relationship with my father. He was present in my life in every way—emotionally, mentally, physically, and financially—long before I was born and well past my 21st year. But, like all humans, he was flawed.
I lost my dad suddenly, a little over a month after I turned 22, just days before the first anniversary of my first “big girl” job and my move into my first apartment. The day before he passed, we had a conversation about something as mundane as how I planned to install my bamboo window treatments. As we wrapped up, I jokingly told him I didn’t need his help, that I had everything under control, and that I loved him regardless.
At the time of his passing, my father was a retiree of the New York Housing Authority. His health had forced him into early retirement after 15 years of service. Despite his limitations, he always tried to help, but I had started to notice how much it drained him. He had a pacemaker installed about a year prior and was still adjusting to a new rhythm of life—three days of strength followed by one or two of exhaustion. The day he died, he was in the midst of one of those recuperation periods.
It is believed that he had put food on the stove and dozed off on the couch—a habit he struggled with for years. He awoke to a smoke-filled apartment, the fire department trying to break down his door to rescue him. A neighbor and friend later told me she had knocked several times before calling 911, but my dad was a deep sleeper. He never woke up. A massive heart attack took him before the flames ever could.
My mother and I lived less than two miles away, so the police arrived at our doors almost immediately. I will never forget the sound of that knock—the one that shattered my world. My mother, upon realizing why they had come, wordlessly pointed them toward my door. She had already told them I was his daughter and, in many ways, his caregiver, just as I was hers. That was part of why I chose to move into the apartment directly across the hall from my mother’s. As the child of aging parents with health issues, proximity meant peace of mind.
The officers told me I needed to get to my dad’s apartment right away. I nodded, shut the door, and collapsed to the floor. I don’t know how long I screamed, but I know I was wailing, lost in a grief I had never known before. When I finally collected myself, I called a friend—an ex-boyfriend who had lost his father just six months prior. I had been there for him. Now, I needed someone to acknowledge the nightmare I had just entered. After our brief conversation, I gathered my things and walked the ten blocks to my father’s apartment.
That wasn’t the first time my father let me down, though.
I remember the first time he forgot we had a date. I was six years old, dressed and ready, waiting on my mother’s hope chest for him to pick me up for a sleepover at my Grandma Lela’s. Noon came and went. Hours passed. Finally, he called—something had come up, and he couldn’t afford the carfare to get me. My mother handed me the phone, making him explain himself directly.
I hung up and felt my tiny heart crack. I retreated to my room and cried.
Later, my mother, bless her heart, scraped together enough change to take me to McDonald’s, hoping a Happy Meal would mend what disappointment had broken. It helped, but it wasn’t the same. Even now, I see the ways I carry that moment with me—I eat my feelings, soothing myself with food when faced with letdowns. That’s my truth, and I own it.
Despite everything, I forgave my dad. He was my Daddy. More than that, my mother never spoke badly of him, never poisoned my love for him with resentment. She wanted me to have something she never did: a healthy, consistent relationship with my father.
Years later, after both of my parents had passed, I found a letter my dad had written to my mother. He had been unemployed at the time and suggested we all move into my Grandma Lela’s house in Queens. Our home, once tied to his job as a superintendent, was no longer ours. My mother refused. Only later did I learn why—she had just found out about his affair.
Some truths come late. Some wounds heal quietly. Some love remains, even through disappointment, even through death.
My father was flawed. But he was mine.
Continues to Part Two
© 2024 – 2025, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
