My daddy

My daddy's dead.

I hated him--I didn't hate him, but I abhorred his behavior. He treated my brother, the one I love most in the world, like shit for no discernible reason. He often raged and screamed at me and lied to us and to other people about us. He seemed to hate our mother. In his last months he often said to me, "I have no family."

At his memorial service we met person after person who he helped, people who went to elementary school with him, and were his med students, people who worked with him for many, many years who spoke with me for minutes with tears streaming down their faces. So many doctors who trained under him, fraternity brothers who thought he was the smartest man they knew, warm, kind, considerate.

Strangers would call to ask to "borrow" money and he wouldn't send my brother to college.

And then his good friend got up and said "What he was most proud of was his children." That he was proud that I was trying to stay independent despite my medical problems. That my brother could translate his brilliance and business acumen into a position in a foreign country and thrive. That he had beautiful little granddaughters and a great daughter-in-law (ex) who made sure that we are family.

And here I am weeping my guts out because I loved him like the sun shone out of his ass.