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 David Morris
 David Morris
by David Morris  FollowFollow
I quit my PhD in psychology and currently manage a program for people with gambling problems in Melbourne, Australia.
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My mother called to tell me that my father was dead. I saw her caller ID on my phone and didn’t answer. I didn’t usually answer when she called. I suspected she’d caught on to this because sometimes she called from numbers I didn’t know. She left messages like “It was Mothers day yesterday. All I was hoping for was a phone call. It’s very hurtful, but it’s too late now,” and “I love you but it makes me feel very sad when you ignore me for 6 months.” I hoped she’d give up calling, but she didn’t. In the end, after a few months, I’d answer the phone just to get some respite. We talked for maybe two minutes. I gave brief answers to her questions, “I’m fine,” “No, nothing is wrong.” She ended each conversation by saying, “I love you.” I said “You too.” I hated myself a little when I said that because it was a lie. I imagined her building that “You too,” into something, taking some comfort in it. Another lie.

This time the message was, “Jack, can you call me back. It’s about your father.” I guessed that meant my father was dead. I couldn’t think of any other reason why she would call about him. I didn’t reply. My father was not a nice man. When we all lived together he used to take the fact that he was leading a life he hated out on the people responsible; me and my mother. Most evenings, after my mother had gone to bed, he would leave his study, where he shut himself away as soon as he arrived home from work, and come into the lounge room and shout at me for not putting a book back in the right spot on the shelf, or leaving a coffee cup ring on the table, or leaving the kitchen light on.

“You’re an idiot,” he would shout. “What are you?”

“I’m an idiot,” I would have to say.

My mother would get out of bed and come into the lounge room and tell my father to stop shouting at me. She would stand in front of me, reaching an arm back and touching my arm.

Later in bed I would hear her say, in a voice that sounded like a whisper, “Please, no”, and “Please, stop.”

I was usually asleep before my father finished what he was doing.

My mother kicked my father out when I was fifteen. I asked her why she didn’t do it earlier.

“Because he threatened to take you away from me,” she said.

I didn’t hate my father. I didn’t have any feelings for him. I didn’t have any feelings for my mother either, except the times when I lied.

My mother called two more times. I was just going to keep ignoring her, but I realised she would attribute my indifference to news about my father to the way he was when I was a child. I thought I would be as indifferent to my mother’s death when the time came. Perhaps I would be a little relieved that I wouldn’t have to lie any more. Then I thought I might regret not trying to seek that relief now, while she was alive and I could do something about it.

I called my mother.

“I just thought you should know your father is dead,” she said.


“Are you ok?”


I thought she was relieved by my reaction. I thought she might have feared that I would reconcile with my father before he died.

“When is the funeral,” I asked.

“On Saturday,” she said. “Why... are you thinking of going?”

“I might,” I said.

“You’re not serious?”

“Why not? He was my father.”

“Well, I’m surprised. I mean the way he treated you as a child. And then, making absolutely no effort to stay in touch.”

“It isn’t really a big deal.”

“But it is a big deal,” my mother said, “You go to a funeral to pay your respects to people who have had a positive influence on your life. People you had feelings for.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course it means something,” she said. “You’re talking nonsense”

The last time I saw my father was about a month after my mother kicked him out. I was in the lounge room watching television and saw him through the window walking down the driveway. I got up and ran to the kitchen where my mother was making dinner.

“It’s Dad,” I said, “Tell him I’m not in.”

I ran to my bedroom and closed the door. I stood close to the door and listened.

“I’d like to see, Jack,” said my father.

“He isn’t in.”

“Well, when will he be in?”

“Graham, he doesn’t want to see you.”


“Yes, really. Can you blame him? You’ve hardly been the model father. Are you surprised he doesn’t want to see you?”

Then my mother told my father, “Graham, you reap what you sow.”

There was silence over the phone.

“Probably, I won’t go,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll go.”



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