The day after I find my father dead in his apartment, I ask my family to share memories of him during dinner. “He forgot my birthday,” my daughter, 13, blurts out. It’s true. During the 11 years of Dad’s widowerhood, he had secretly funneled money to a con woman and grown untethered from his own family. “I know,” I tell my daughter. “Grandpa got so lonely that he kinda lost his way.” She leaves the table. I could have told her that I, of all people, understood the pain of wanting love from a man who never learned the language.
Jenn McKee is a Michigan-based essayist and journalist. Her work has appeared in Good Housekeeping, Shondaland, Scary Mommy, The Writer, and more.