Father’s are figures of strength, a sense of resilience to keep the family together and the epitome of responsibility. I really believed that. When I was younger, being closer to my father was easier. He always seemed to be home more often, less strict and he is good with playing games.
That was a time obliviousness clouded the future implications my father’s choices would have on the family.
(More time at home is equivalent to less work, which means less money. So on and so forth.)
But when you grow up and that imagination has been proven flawed, it is difficult to reconcile what my father is, to me. And then, the questions come.
Does a single mistake, even though it doesn’t seem like he regrets anything so far, enough to reduce everything else he did for me?
He loved us, does he still love us despite the choices he chose to make?
Did he really love us?
Why does he not see the consequences of his actions?
When he grows older and comes back to me for money, would I give?
Is it ever an obligation to give your parents monetary allowance when you start work?
Even when you know the money will be spent on ridiculous choices you never agreed with?
What happens when you become an adult and your values go against your parents?
When is the time you are able to speak up against your parents, as an equal? Is it age, holding a job, what is it?
Does that time ever come?
Is there even a time for that?
The questions come and go. They make me recognise that I am not entirely okay with the current situation. It frustrates me that no straight answers exist and even I, am lost in my questioning and confusion. Never knew how annoying advertisements can be until I fund myself in this place.
At this point, now, what is there to even celebrate anymore?
That figure in my life, has gone. Beyond recognition.