My unexpected inheritance
"it's just what happens to diamonds"
If you live on Earth, you might know how it feels to both loathe and love someone simultaneously. You may even imagine this person as two people— a being you care about deeply, and a pain-in-the-ass you don’t know what to do with. You might wish you could only access the “good” version of them, dreaming the “bad” version would slip out of their skin and die, vanish, never to torture you again. You might also know what it’s like to have this person be your parent.
Since I can remember, I’ve split my dad in two— one I wished would die and one I’d die to save. One was goofy, proud, stylish, a rescuer of strays, an enthusiast for taking me to the movies and watching me finish the last bite of eggs Benedict. The other was paranoid, racist, explosive— wouldn’t answer the phone for weeks and weeks. I split my dad in two, listing his personality traits in separated columns like it was my job. Explosive goes here, Stylish goes there. Here is what’s good and here is what’s bad. I was the arbiter of right and wrong, an expert in how to divide a human being.
Spending a day with dad, I’d behold as he lurched between bad and good. My two dads in a battle as I rooted for one. Picking me up on-time, driving me to the beach, Good! There he is! Escalating road rage, weaving through the 10 freeway with his petrified nine year old in the car, Bad! Make it stop! Double checking the strength of my seatbelt, and regretting his erratic driving. There we go! You came back! Finally finding a parking spot and intentionally destroying the meter so as not to pay the city. Oh… you again. I hope no one’s watching.
Did someone split my dad in two? Or did I?
Did I have two dads? Or one?
For some reason, my heart can’t agree with the latter.
His ego seemed rattled when I began sixth grade at a new school known for its famous, wealthy parents. I could see a fragile man right through that thick, tobacco-perfumed leather jacket. He’d grumble, “Sorry my house isn’t good enough for you, Peach,” if I asked to turn up the air conditioning.
My new classmates’ designer labels wreaked havoc on my impressionable middle school brain. Somehow believing that if I could shop at Fred Segal, I would both look and feel like the daughter of an unconditionally present dad. My materialistic pre-teen desire to fit in with my peers was a personal attack on my grown ass dad, arguably a pre-teen himself. My new environment his new threat— feeding his insecurity til it grew arms and legs, inserting itself into all our interactions, no matter how heavy or brief.
You can maybe imagine the look on my face when he showed up on time to celebrate my sixteenth birthday, and presented me with a Tiffany blue box wrapped in its matching silk ribbon. You can maybe imagine the look on his face too. Each immature in our respective ways, we were both proud to play the parts of the fathers and daughters at my fancy private school, even if just for this sweet sixteen memory.
Sitting in his stalling Jeep, I opened the box in the glow of his grin. It contained a silver chain— almost invisible but somehow still sparkling, thread through a dainty diamond pendant. I regretfully clocked that it was not the trending necklace my friends had been sporting. But I never would’ve let that bratty observation slip. My dad made an active effort to speak my stupid teenage language. He and that diamond both beamed at me, the image of them together fueling my nagging belief that bad dad could go away forever.
A year or so later, during one of my dad’s signature disappearing acts, while I was at a run of the mill sleepover at a friend’s, I lost my necklace. I clutched my bare collarbone and panicked. Hadn’t I slept in it? Or did I leave it on a side table before bed? Where could it possibly be??? Can we move this king size furniture? Is it in the cracks of these tastefully remodeled wood floors? I remember feeling like it had truly disappeared, without warning or explanation, Bad Dad style.
My guilt was immense. I had one chance to wear and show off my dad’s love, and I fucking blew it. My beautiful necklace vanished in a picturesque mansion— one paid for by a man who always came home. That immaculately designed palace swallowed my little diamond whole, signaling that a diamond isn’t forever if your dad’s affection wasn’t built to last. More proof that a disappearance could be all my fault.
But Good Dad always came back. He did. No really, he did! Sometimes miraculously, when I needed it most, like he could suddenly smell my starved daughterhood, like a superhero plunging from the night sky when you’d have sworn all is lost. At twenty-four, in the depths of my first romantic heartbreak, I was splayed out on my living room floor in a tee-shirt and laundry day underwear, like I was in a scene directed by Lena Dunham. Depleted and probably dehydrated from all the sobbing, I struggled to lift my head, eyeing my phone, wondering if I was physically even capable of not calling my ex boyfriend. Knowing my intelligence was no match for my codependency, my thumb sprang to my ex’s name in my contacts. But before I could hit call, the name DAD appeared. Well, actually, it probably didn’t say DAD. It must’ve said something like DAD CELL NEW NEW NEW, because my father often called from unrecognizable numbers, and my obsessiveness insisted on saving every single one. I wonder how much less chaotic my life would’ve been if caller ID had the capability to specify whether Good Dad or Bad Dad was calling. Nevermind, I’m sure I would’ve answered either way.
But this fateful day on the floor, it was Good Dad. No question. I’d recognize that buttery voice anywhere. I wailed unintelligibly and he let me. For two hours. Only interrupting every once in awhile to mutter “I know, baby. I know.” A crack in his voice telling me he felt the pain too. And when I finally tired myself out, voicing every last irrational fear and thought in my racing brain, he spoke like a man with all the answers. “Peach. Listen to me. Listen to me, Peach. It would be absurd if you found the love of your life quickly. Okay? You’re a diamond, Peachie. Do you understand? It’s going to take time. It takes time to find another diamond. And that’s okay. Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s just what happens to diamonds.”
Good Dad then identified every good quality of mine, before delivering a perfectly worded apology. He fully apologized. For everything. His absences. The violence. It was the first time I’d ever heard him confidently acknowledge his shortcomings and failures without one excuse. He used words I didn’t know he could string together; “You deserve better.” “I haven’t been a good father.” “I took out my pain on you, and I’m so so sorry.” “It was never your fault, Peach.” I remember peeling myself off the floor and scrambling to a notebook, knowing I was experiencing an honest to god miracle. I grabbed an unprepared pencil and wrote down as much as I could, as fast as my shaky claw could scribble— my parched body couldn’t risk losing one drop of this. It was everything I’d ever wanted and more, more, more.
I wish I could say I never heard from Bad Dad again after that. But Good Dad gradually faded away long before my father died. I’d see glimmers of Good Dad here and there. But at some point he just evaporated, without a goodbye. Intoxication and cruelty replaced him.
I’ve spent the last few weeks preparing to spread my dad’s ashes, trying to conceptualize who exactly I’m bidding farewell. Some of him I’d like to keep, to have made into a tiny diamond. For me. To bury one and not the other. Navigating complex physical and emotional sensations as I gather containers and measuring spoons, proficient at splitting my dad in two.
He said, “You’re a diamond.” And I go, “no you’re a diamond!” ZAP! Whipping my finger at his urn. Suffocating him between my desperate palms— once and for all discovering if I can form him under extreme pressure. You will be who I say you are.
In your brief moment of clarity and brilliance, you named me a diamond too.
"It takes a long, long time to find a diamond,” you said, as I spent years and years searching for you unsuccessfully behind your face, and in the shadows of a rich man's home.
I’m eager to wear you on the outside now, showing you off in a way I’d never have dared. Because they would’ve seen only one man who couldn’t. They would’ve seen only one man where I knew two. One worthy, whom I did not invent, invisible behind your villainy, needing love like the rest of us.
I split my dad in two. So that one could be tossed,
and the other could be you.
♥
This is incredibly vulnerable and honest. I had a similar relationship with my father, especially when he was ill. He passed when I was 13, and unfortunately, I have had to do my own healing to feel it wasn’t my fault. Still working on it. Thank you for writing and sharing X
Crying at 1 am ♥️♥️