My father was a Polish immigrant who fled World War II to America but I rarely heard him recount his childhood stories. Perhaps they were buried under layers of war horror that he preferred not to relive.

He worked hard to make his money, running a little restaurant. I still remember running as a little girl out to the front door and literally clinging onto his long legs as he strode in, screaming in happiness and knowing that his pockets were full of my favorite sweets. For many years a treasured game was being thrown up to the ceiling and being caught in his arms, knowing he would always catch me.  

When I was about thirteen, his business went bankrupt - I think an accountant had absconded with a large sum of money. My father became a broken man - he was a very trusting man and the betrayal cut deep. I only felt anger and confusion at the personality change as the smiling man became withdrawn. What had happened to my father? Why couldn’t I buy the pretty dresses in the shop windows, why were there no more presents of candy? With the harsh judgmental thinking that only children are capable of, I felt let down and disappointed in him.

For many years, he made it through a series of odd jobs. My mother worked hard but there were frequent disputes at home over money. My father was careful—he never spent any money on himself – he wore shoes until they were almost in tatters. But with whatever little money he did make he would still buy some small token to bring home for me, a cheap frock or a basket of my favorite fruits.

He wanted me to have a good education and my childhood years were spent in the best school in the area – a luxury I now realize he shouldn’t have splurged on even during his good years. Maybe it was the fear of the poverty that made me an overachiever, determined to excel, striving relentlessly from ever falling into the pit again.

Some years later he tried to commit suicide by overdosing on a prescription drug. Luckily he was rushed to the hospital on time to be saved. When they brought him home a few days later, emaciated and barely able to walk, I think I truly grew up. It was the day I made the transition from spoiled child to responsible adult. I knew that I would have to take care of him, that he was as weak and helpless as I would have once been as a child in his arms.

I recognize now that he had had a nervous breakdown brought on by frustration, low self-esteem and perhaps latent memories of the terrible war years. We didn’t take him to any psychiatrists because we couldn’t afford it. Perhaps time was the best healer in the end, though it was many years before he recovered a semblance of his former self.

I started working. There was more money and no more worries about the wolf at the door. My father was proud of me, I knew that. But I still felt the barrier – it was as if my father had thrown me up and then let me fall to the ground, let fall the cloak of invincibility and immortality that children draw around their parents, and shown himself as weak.  

I did well in my career. I bought my parents a house in a nice suburb, slowly erasing the past. The day I finally crumbled was when my father became very ill and had to be taken to the hospital. I was sitting in the waiting room, when the nurse handed me his wallet. I had seen him carry it around for many years, battered good leather. There was no money inside, only a few bills and receipts. But in the transparent front pocket was a faded sepia photograph of a smiling three year old girl. I couldn’t stop crying as I looked at myself.

To this day, I thank God that my father recovered. I thank God that I have been given a second chance to mend the fences and rediscover my love for him, to forgive him for all his weaknesses and in the process, to forgive myself. After so many confused years, I can finally look at him and say "I love you Dad."