Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos
I met my father for the first time when I was fifty-seven and he, forty-one.
I didn’t see it coming. Such a stupid way to go. Rain, marble, and slippery shoes. A lethal combination.
Then, light was everywhere, was everything. It engulfed and blinded me. Its sparkling warmth reminded me of summers gone; floating in the—flat as oil—Mediterranean Sea, blinking at the sunrise. It brought back the cawing and squawking of crows and seagulls fighting over food and plastic leftovers abandoned by festive night owls on shiny white tables and bright blue chaise longues. It brought back the desperation of tiny Caretta Caretta turtles fighting their way through pebbles and seashells before diving into the safe womb of the sea. It brought back the crashing sound of the waves and made me crave the milky sweetness of a Lentzos Frappé and blueberry pancakes covered with maple syrup. My belly growled.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the brightness, but as they did, a figure silhouetted against the brilliance walked towards me, arms open wide; my beloved grandma, the strength who raised me.
I ran to hug her. “I’ve missed you so—”
But the arms enfolding me were strong and hairy. I had thrown my ethereal self into the embrace of a younger man, a stranger who bore my smile.
I stepped back. “Sorry. It’s so bright out here. I thought… I expected someone else.”
My smile turned into a grin. “You expected your grandmother. She’s here, but I got priority as your next of kin.”
“You did?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“I’m your father.”
I froze.
In all my fifty-seven years, I’d had a mother, grandparents, uncles and aunts—some of which I could have done without—cousins, and a wife and kids. I had been many things to many people. I was a father to my sons, but never a father’s son.
I stepped back and crossed my arms. “Too little too late, don’t you think? Where were you when I was in kindergarten and primary school, forced to craft Father’s Day cards?”
My smile died on the man’s lips. “I’m sorry. I—”
“You were no father. I should know, I was one.”
“But—”
“But what?” Anger rose in my throat, words spilling out before my brain could control the torrent of verbal onslaught. “Were you there when I was born? Did you see my first steps, hear my first words, congratulate me on my good grades, tell me off when I messed up? Were you there when I had my heart broken, when a shithead tried to make me jump off a neighbour’s roof, when I had my first fight, when I finished school, or uni? Were you there when I struggled to find my first job and knew no one to help me, when I got married, became a dad? When we lost our baby girl? When the bank tried to auction our home? Were you there? Where the fuck were you, Darth Vader?”
“Darth… what?”
I shrugged. “After your time.”
His brows knitted into a fury line. “But I always watched over you. I was there, you just couldn’t see me. I materialised once to tell you—”
“That everything would be okay? Yes, I remember. Thanks for that, Darth. What kind of a father appears as a ghost to a toddler? Do you have any idea how damaging that could have been? How immature of you.”
“I wanted to see you, to tell you I was there…”
“So, it was about you.”
“No… I…”
“You appeared once, out of the blue, like a ridiculous hirsute fairy, then vanished for the rest of my life. Do you really expect me to take you seriously?”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
He reached for my shoulder, his hand trembling at the touch. “I wanted to be there.”
“Why didn’t you visit again?”
“You seemed to be all right. I didn’t want to mess with you.”
I nodded. “What went wrong, anyway? What killed you?”
“My heart gave out. Too many responsibilities. My mother, my sisters—”
I rolled my eyes. “See, you were a son, and a brother, at least, but never a father. Had you lived longer, maybe you would have matured into one, but seriously…” I snorted. “His sisters… too many responsibilities…”
“You could never understand it. You were an only child.”
“And whose fault—”
His visage creased with sadness, reminding me of my sons’ about-to-cry-toddler faces.
I sighed. “It was weird growing up with a shadow for a father. Everyone talked about you; there were tears and a lot of nonsensical words. You hovered around—the father I’d never met, would never meet—and no one seemed to know the first thing about you; what you liked, your dreams… You were a mystery haunting my everyday life, and I resented you for that. But I’d like to get to know you… and I’m parched. Is there a decent cafe around here?”
My smile curled up around my father’s dimples. “There is this place with a river of ouzo cascading from the mountain, ad aeternam roasting piglets, and a panoramic view to admire the sunset.”
I chortled. “No wonder you died young, son… I mean… Dad… How about a Lentzos Frappé by the sea, basking in the sunrise instead?”
“That we can do.” He patted my shoulder before fishing a packet of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket.
“That’s what killed you, you know. Grow up, Dad.”
Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature & music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, and hates easy opening packaging. Her words can be found in Roi Fainéant Press, BULL, Epistemic Literary, The Hooghly Review, Revolution John, Spare Parts Lit, JAKE, among others. She is a contributor to Poverty House and the EIC of Raw Lit. Her debut historical novel Laundry Day was selected as a Runner-up at the Irish Novel Fair 2024. She lives in Athens, Greece. X/BSKY/Facebook: @DelGeo14 https://delphinegg.weebly.com
Featured photo by Arina Dmitrieva (Pexels)
