Father's Day: A Slap In Public

into a deep, hollow ache. The slap didn't hurt anymore, but the memory of my father's face, cold and unforgiving, was sea

his own abstract feelings over the concrete needs of his family. Growing up, our home revolved around his moods. When he was "inspi

ts. Art is about freedom." What he meant was that my career was practical and made money, something his never did. H

"artistic endeavors," and to make sure I had everything I needed for school. She was the one who encouraged my love for design, buying me draftin

her retire. I bought them a better house. When my mother got sick, I paid for the best doctors and private

He hated the house because it was "too big and empty," so I bought him a chic, modern studio apartment downtown, close to the galleries he

rk, dote on Lily. I knew, on some level, that his affection was tied to my financial support, but I was willing to

ting him to be happy. I hired Brenda, paying her a salary that was more than generous. I saw her as

gs cost. My father' s increasing requests for more money for "art supplies" or "unexpected expenses." I had b

father. I let it ring. He called again. And again. On

anicked. "My card was just declined at the grocery store! And

elief and outrage, as if I ha

I said

"I'm your father! You have a re

e as cold as ice. "You made your choice at the school today. You chose Brenda and

tammered. "You can't take the

uch with you about that,

enda's. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. It wasn't a