The last time I saw my dad was a week before I turned 19. I remember it vividly. Our relationship was pretty shaky at that point. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and there was a significant emotional buildup—frustration, anger, and a bunch of other feelings I’m not even capable of naming.
I wanted to meet up with him to talk about us. Our relationship. I wanted to tell him so much. That I really wanted him in my life because I loved him. That even though he hardly ever sent any alimony, I didn’t want this to be about money—but I also didn’t understand why he kept promising it, yet never followed through.
I wanted to tell him I was tired of being the only one trying—always the one who texts, who calls, who asks to meet. He never picked up the phone just to say hello or what’s up? or how’s school? or do you have a girlfriend? I wanted to tell him I felt like he’d never really shown much interest in me. That he was full of big words when we spent time together, but rarely followed them through. And that whatever beef he had with Mum all those years ago didn’t have to poison our relationship.
There was so much I wanted to say. So many questions. Most of them started with why.
I was sad, angry, furious, upset, confused—and so nervous about seeing him that night. We agreed to meet up in a pub in my hometown. I really wanted us to be alone. This conversation was far too important to involve anyone else. It was about just the two of us. He promised he’d come alone. Somehow, I had a hard time believing that.
The pub he suggested was one of his old locals—he used to go there when he was young, when he was my age, when he met Mum. I’d been in once or twice before, but it just wasn’t my jam.
The night was dark. The streetlights made it possible to see just a few flickering stars in an otherwise pitch-black sky. I felt the cold; the tips of my fingers were going numb fast. Mum usually reminds me to put on gloves and a hat, but she wasn’t around that night. The collar of my thick wool jumper was itching my neck, and I felt uncomfortable. My legs were stiff, and the thin, freezing fabric of my chinos clung tightly to them. It was only a short walk to the pub, but I started shaking as soon as it appeared in sight. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or the anticipation of what might come.
And just like that, there it was—the pub.
It was one of those places tucked just below street level, so you had to go down a few steps to get in. As you descended, a big room opened up with low, arched ceilings. Dim, artificial lighting gave the place a permanent headache vibe. No music. Hardly any people. You could hear a pin drop.
There was a profound heaviness behind the few drunken eyes that briefly glanced up as the door closed behind you. But just as quickly, and with an unbothered attitude, they’d sink back into their bottomless pints.
The décor was dark and worn. Huge wooden tables sat on a thin, grey-stained carpet that barely muffled the creaky floor beneath. The walls—once bleach white—now stood yellow. And then there was the smell: cheap beer, decades of cigarette smoke, and deep-fried food, hanging in the air like old arguments.
Quiet Paragraphs 