The Mysteries of Kathleen O’Day #2 (my father’s story)

My father has always been a bastard.  In that sense he has never let me down.  For years I idolized him, he was my hero.  Now sitting at the end of his kitchen table, I feel an enormous sense of dread filling my hear.  Today is the day that I am telling my father I am transferring out of the Boston PD and moving to Miami.  There are an endless amount of possibilities of how he will react, one that won’t be his acceptance.  I know my father, and from what I know he does not like change and he does not appreciate his family going against him.  I don’t know if it is him I am running away from or the fact that this city has eaten me up and spit me out so many times that i can’t feel any more.  I am numb.
“So I hear from the boys at the station you are leaving?”
There goes the element of surprise. “Yea dad.”
“I don’t know why, but I’m sure you have a good reason.”
The feeling I have does not even have words to describe. “Dad, I can’t take this city anymore. I feel like I have nothing to lose and if I am going to get out now, this is the time to do it.”
“Leaving the city?  I thought you were just transferring departments.  Where will you be going? Cambridge? Springfield?”
I froze. His long and stoic look forced me to completely shut down.  After about what felt like an eternity, I answered.
“Dad, I’m moving to Florida. Miami to be precise.”
“Florida. What would be there?”
“Nothing specific. It is just away.”
“Away from me.  Away from your family.”
It is tough when someone that you love and have cared about for years, has a look of total disgust.
“Kathleen.  I know that this past year. well a few years have been tough on you and I know that you are the only girl, but I have tried to be the dad that you need.”
“Dad you have been wonderful and you are difficult to be around, but I have to go.  I have to break this tradition of being here and living a short life or living until I am broken.”
“Broken, is that how you would describe me?”
“Dad…”
I couldn’t answer him. The truth was is that I never knew him before my mother died.  Even then he was a shell of a person. Cold. Cynical.  I felt that I was becoming the same way.  There are a lot of ways my dad and I are alike.  But I wanted to break that pattern.
“Dad…” I began.  “It is difficult to say.  How would you describe yourself?”

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