I had confirmation today that I am in fact my father’s least favorite child. I had to laugh, it came from someone who would know, and they seemed to think it was funny too. Of course, my laughter wasn’t of the comedic sense, but of the defeated one.

Out of five, he really only raised three, two of which barely saw him. I saw him the most. I’m beginning to wonder if being the least favorite is because he had to endure the most time around one of us, and it happened to be me.

The older I get the more I realize that some people never wanted kids. Kids may have been the means to another end, like keeping a woman. This becomes necessary when there is chronic codependency in a man. Oh how Freudian my relationships have been!

As a woman my first male connection was with my father, it wasn’t much of one at all. No wonder I find myself thinking I’m connected to men who do nothing but drain me.

Makes more and more sense as I see it now for what it is. I remember the eye roll he gave me when I asked him for coffee a few weeks back. We hadn’t spoken in a year. Still, he was put out by my request.

In another universe, where he is capable of caring for himself, would he have ever had children? I’m not sure. He lays there on the bed watching the news, approaching eighty, ignoring the shattered branches of his tree.

When speaking with my other siblings they tell me that he’ll never change. I suppose I’m having the hardest time accepting that. Father’s who disregard their daughter’s create monsters. I am my father’s least favorite child. I understand why; it must be hard to look at the ashes of something you’ve burned.