It’s been 4+ years since I’ve spoken to my estranged, conservative Christian stepmother. We tried for 3 years after my father died to get along for his sake, helping her pick a senior place to move to and choose finishes in the being-built apartment. Ultimately, since I was going to hell for being an Episcopalian and Dave was damned for being Jewish, there was simply no way for the relationship to continue without my father as the glue. It broke down during the 2020 election cycle when she emailed my liberal spouse propaganda about a certain candidate literally being the second coming, and he very nicely drew a boundary. She cut us off entirely. We never knew if she managed to move as we were no longer allowed to speak to the representative at the senior development.
Out of the blue last month, a box arrived. Dave came in from outside, arms full of box, with a funny look on his face. “This is for you,” he said. The label, in her neat handwriting, was addressed only to me. He set it down on the bench in the foyer and we both stared at it. “It’s not a bomb, is it?” I joked. “No, it’s not ticking,” Dave said. After a minute, we both said, “I guess she’s finally moving.”
Pause for a moment to consider that I had just finished months of work cleaning out my ancestor’s stuff in my basement. I was done. Furthermore, I had once expected to be able to choose what of my father’s was coming home with me. Given the relationship, I had long ago let go of having any of his effects other than what he gave me before he passed away. Looking at the unopened box, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
What happened next was odd, as packages invariably move the onto kitchen counter, get opened with a knife, unpacked, and the box goes out to recycling. This box stayed on the foyer bench. I brought a knife over and cut the seal.
Sifting through on a first pass, I could see the box was full of my father’s mementos. Photos of my mother, of a life before my stepmother entered it. Photos I had never seen. My father’s wallet and his Navy Insignia pins. His name plate from work. A soldering iron I once expressed interest in having. His father’s pocket watch. No note. Just envelopes full of miscellaneous photos and stuff she didn’t know what to do with anymore. I burst into tears. Dave encouraged me to leave the box there until I was ready to look through it thoroughly. It sat for at least a week.
Then, shock and surprise being over, I sat down to really go through the box. In my father’s wallet, next to all his ID cards of various kinds, was this little card with a scripture from the book of John on it. Given what’s been happening since Inauguration Day, it felt like a sign from heaven. This was the man my father was at his core, before FOX news entered his life. I miss that Dad, very much.
Out of the blue last month, a box arrived. Dave came in from outside, arms full of box, with a funny look on his face. “This is for you,” he said. The label, in her neat handwriting, was addressed only to me. He set it down on the bench in the foyer and we both stared at it. “It’s not a bomb, is it?” I joked. “No, it’s not ticking,” Dave said. After a minute, we both said, “I guess she’s finally moving.”
Pause for a moment to consider that I had just finished months of work cleaning out my ancestor’s stuff in my basement. I was done. Furthermore, I had once expected to be able to choose what of my father’s was coming home with me. Given the relationship, I had long ago let go of having any of his effects other than what he gave me before he passed away. Looking at the unopened box, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
What happened next was odd, as packages invariably move the onto kitchen counter, get opened with a knife, unpacked, and the box goes out to recycling. This box stayed on the foyer bench. I brought a knife over and cut the seal.
Sifting through on a first pass, I could see the box was full of my father’s mementos. Photos of my mother, of a life before my stepmother entered it. Photos I had never seen. My father’s wallet and his Navy Insignia pins. His name plate from work. A soldering iron I once expressed interest in having. His father’s pocket watch. No note. Just envelopes full of miscellaneous photos and stuff she didn’t know what to do with anymore. I burst into tears. Dave encouraged me to leave the box there until I was ready to look through it thoroughly. It sat for at least a week.
Then, shock and surprise being over, I sat down to really go through the box. In my father’s wallet, next to all his ID cards of various kinds, was this little card with a scripture from the book of John on it. Given what’s been happening since Inauguration Day, it felt like a sign from heaven. This was the man my father was at his core, before FOX news entered his life. I miss that Dad, very much.
Being a well-trained daughter, I wrote my stepmother a thank you note.
I apologize if I've offended anyone here by this writing. It's impossible for me to talk about this experience without revealing my political and religious beliefs. The conflict and crisis in my family would not exist without those differences between us. Please consider this a microcosm of what we are facing in the US and have mercy on us all. Thank you.
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