a little weary

One father gone off to the South of France, Father's Day crammed in to yesterday morning, before he left.

Olivia is full of regard for her father at the moment, excitement about Father's Day, and 'your the best Dad in the world', after a few years of coolness and defensive rejection. It's good, I hope. I hope it's all for the best. It means she feels safe to love again, I suppose.

And me - my father is miserable at the moment - his dog got killed, a fox got his hens, he lost his two directorships. And he may be sitting at home right now feeling bitter, because I didn't give him a father's day card or gift, and I always used to go out to lunch with my mother on Mother's Day.

I'm not a good daughter.

But I let him set the tone for how we interact. He doesn't recognise my birthday, or his grandchildren. I find it impossible to be sentimental. I don't have a daddy. It doesn't feel safe to love, so I'm left with discomfort and confusion, and he's left with bitterness and rejection and I don't have a thick enough skin to brazen it out and fix it. He has his little girl wife to do the job far better than me, anyway.

It doesn't feel good, but it seems best to leave it at that.