“In the years following the demise of my first love, I found myself often repeating my dad’s advice to friends. It seemed to comfort everyone who heard it”
Photo: J.V. Aranda Sure, my father and I talk. My father and I talk about computer software. We talk about getting the best deal on cell-phone plans. On one of my recent visits home, we talked about Cleveland sports teams and then watched the final two minutes of the 1988 AFC Championships on YouTube, in which the Browns fumbled and suffered a heartbreaking loss to the Denver Broncos. My dad and I then discussed heartbreak. But sports heartbreak, not the real shit.
When I was away at college, I received the most mortifying request of all: “Your dad found your condoms while we were moving your old dresser. Please don’t leave that stuff around.” What bugged me more than the icky feeling of knowing that my dad knew I was sexually active, though, was knowing that my dad knew I’d grow up, without him. I’d moved out, fallen in love, taken my first steps into adulthood, and was still only capable of small talk with him. We were strangers.
After reading it, Corby stormed out of the house, leaving me in shock. Seeing my obvious distress, my mother hugged me and I began to sob. My dad sauntered into the room and turned on The Shield.“It’s Corby!” My sister yelled.I sprang to action and greeted Corby on the porch, deciding it was best if he didn’t come in. He said he was sorry, that he regretted violating my privacy, but that he was glad he did because now we could move on. His words were rushed, and then he broke into tears.
I stood silently, afraid to move — afraid I might scare this moment away. This was a side of my father I’d never met, but every part of it felt tailored to me. The idea of moving on without looking back, even if it hurts, felt tangible. It was something I could actually use. And after years of small talk, the fact that my father had had an ex-girlfriend before my mom was shocking to me. I wasn’t the only one in the room with an unshared side of my life.
The assumption that my dad and I were tight often tugged at my heart. In the years since Corby, he and I had gone back to our old ways: I spoke to him on holidays, and in the entire year of 2007, only once, on Christmas. After college, I moved to New York City and with the distance came greater silence between us.
When my dad picked up instead, I panicked. By that time, it had been nearly a decade since our first and only heart-to-heart. And I was worried he thought my decision to move in with yet another boyfriend was a foolish move.I took a deep breath.He paused. Did he suspect I was full of shit?“Yeah?” I said, ending the word extra inquisitively, needing him to continue.
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