The Apology I’ve Waited 40 Years to Hear

(7-minute read)

My father passed away last week. I saw it on Facebook. His wife posted it along with a photo of a man I barely recognized. She calls him Bobby; my mom always called him Bob. But those blue eyes are unmistakable. The more I stared at the photo, the more that old face slowly materialized into the one I used to know well.

I hadn’t seen my dad in forty years, and there he was—looking like a sweet old man you’d want to hug, not the man I remember. More shocking than learning he had died was how little I felt about it—at least at first. But it’s been several days now, and I feel plenty.

I was thankful to be connected to his wife on Facebook so I could at least know about my father’s passing instead of always wondering what had happened to him, as I do with so many other family members. She reached out to me several years ago on Facebook while we were living in Africa. She introduced herself—in Spanish—as my dad’s wife, telling me they had two daughters together, and said the girls would like to talk to me if I wasn’t opposed to the idea.

I told her I would be happy to meet them and gave her my WhatsApp number. We chatted briefly. She mentioned being an “old lady” and shared her age. When I told her I was a year older than she was, she apologized profusely. That made me laugh, and I assured her I didn’t hold it—or anything my father had done—against her or my two half-sisters. I meant it. I was actually eager to meet them. The older daughter, who was still a teenager at the time, called me.

She was very sweet. I had hoped to hear that our father had turned a corner and had been a good dad to her, but that wasn’t exactly what she told me. It sounded like he hadn’t changed much. In fact, he had steered his new family away from contacting me and my siblings because “we probably wouldn’t want to talk to them anyway, and we weren’t really great people.” Thankfully, she had the good sense to look us up on social media. She said she had a hard time believing that people who feed and educate kids in Africa could be complete monsters. So she’s smart, too.

We had a good conversation, but she said her little sister wasn’t ready to talk to me, which I understood. She asked if I wanted to talk to our dad. She admitted he had never shown any interest in connecting with me, so I declined. I’ve spent the last forty years—at least in part—working through the fact that my father abandoned me. I didn’t need to hear again how little interest he had in my life or the lives of my children.

We decided to just get to know each other a little and leave it at that. I enjoyed talking to her, and after a little more back-and-forth, I realized I liked her. In fact, I love her simply because she’s my sister. Funny how that works.

We’ve barely kept in touch in recent years, but I think about her and pray for her often. I’ve felt sad that she and her sister are still so young and under the influence of the same man I’m often thankful I escaped. My youngest brother went to see him years ago. For all intents and purposes, it was the first time he had ever met him. He asked if I wanted to go. When I said I would only if he needed me there, he went alone. He later reported that it was a disappointing encounter.

I was happy to avoid more disappointment in person, though some of it still reached me when my brother told me about their conversation over the phone. Apparently, when my brother showed him photos of the work John and I do in Africa, he said he probably wouldn’t get along with me at all and dismissed any idea of connecting.

There’s always been a gaping hole in my heart where a father should have been. Even typing that feels like a huge cliché, and I know what some of my Christian friends are thinking right now—I’ve heard it a thousand times: “God is our Father.” Yes, I know that and believe it with all my heart. But unless your earthly father has chosen to be absent for most of your life, you can’t fully understand how powerfully that absence shapes a person—like a container shapes the water poured into it.

After seeing the post announcing my dad’s death, I messaged his wife and the only half-sibling I’ve ever spoken to, and sent my condolences. Despite not having had him in my life since about age fifteen, I still wanted to know everything. He was my father, and I have sons. There’s something in me that feels the need to know these things: How did he die? Will there be a funeral? How many children did he actually have? Did he ever say anything good about me or my mom? She was a beautiful person. I wonder if he was ever sorry for how he treated her—or for anything.

I recognize, though, that the people who spent every day with him and who have just lost him are grieving very differently than I am. I said goodbye years ago and made peace with losing my dad. Most of my questions can wait. But I did ask about a funeral. I’m not sure I would have gone—I don’t know anyone who would be there, and I think they all speak Spanish—but I was curious.

They had already held a memorial service by the time I asked, and I was not invited. That’s okay. It’s probably for the best. Then my half-sister texted me that, for what it’s worth, he was sorry. Just as I was about to ask how she could be so sure, she said she had a video of him saying so and would send it to me. She did—right then.

I was in the car with John at a red light. I read her message out loud and started to play the video. “Wait!” John said. “Don’t you want to—I don’t know—watch it together at home or something?” I agreed it was abrupt and probably deserved a bit more ceremony, so we waited until we got home and watched it in the car before unloading the groceries. That was about all the pomp and circumstance I could manage. In some ways, I had been waiting for this moment my whole life.

I watched my father in a hospital bed, surrounded by people I’ve never met but am related to, list all of his children and say he was sorry for everything he ever said or did. A man who looked and acted like the dad I remember held his hand. I recognized him as a half-brother I knew I had but know nothing about. The words were drowned out by loud hospital machinery, and I had trouble understanding much of what he said. But I believe he listed about ten children, and I’m pretty sure he forgot to mention Steve, his firstborn and my oldest brother—the one who probably got the worst of him, the one who was physically and mentally abused right in front of me at times.

For some reason, I felt that omission more than I felt the apology directed at me—“Sammy Strong Arm,” as he called me. I don’t remember him ever calling me that, and he added “Samantha” to be sure I knew he was talking to me. I’m thankful he didn’t use any of the other names I remember from my childhood. Sure, I’m well into my fifties, married for decades, and have a grandchild, but that video transported me back to the towheaded, bright-eyed little tomboy I was when this old man was my daddy. It was emotional enough that I still haven’t brought myself to watch it again.

So there it was—the apology of apologies. I forgive him. I forgave him many years ago. I had to. How was I supposed to be married and raise kids without forgiving my dad? I chose not to carry that burden, and I’ve never regretted it.

Now I wonder if my dad ever listened to his third wife about Jesus. I can see from her Facebook posts that she’s a Christian, and during our first conversation she asked me to pray for her and her daughters. I appreciated that she had the decency not to presume to ask me to pray for my dad and that she recognized his influence on their daughters wasn’t exactly drawing them closer to the God we both serve. I have prayed for him. Though I have now officially lost the lingering hope that I might one day be reconciled with my dad, I still hold onto a glimmer of hope that her faith in Jesus Christ somehow rubbed off on him.

I’m not a very good blogger. I take too long to process things before I can write and publish them in real time. I’m always impressed by people who can do that. But enough of you tell me that you relate to what I share that it keeps me writing. I’m thankful my half-sister reached out to me years ago. I’m thankful her mom loves Jesus. I’m thankful my father apologized to me, even if it wasn’t in person and came very late. I’m left with the sad realization that an apology to me doesn’t affect anyone’s eternity. It’s just a hint that maybe some of my occasional, feeble prayers for my dad have been answered—and it fuels my desire to keep hoping that others will be answered too.