What Is It About Blood, That You Can't Just Let It Go?

I think my earliest memory of him, I was probably around eight or so. I was spending time at his actual house, which was rare. Generally, we would have visits at my grandparents' house, with my grandparents filling in the gaps where conversation should go. He never was an every-other weekend kind of parent; but, of course, that could have been because he lived so far away.

On this occasion, he was working on some sort of deck, and I "helped." Mostly, I played with the pretend family of beavers that were living under the pile of wood. I don't remember doing any of the cutting, measuring, hammering... But maybe bitterness erased it all from my mind. I do remember trying to think of things to say to him; what could I do to make him like me?

We went to a Bluegrass Festival, and I was, understandably, bored out of my mind. I know he was just trying to think of things to do with me, but I really would have preferred putt-putt golf, which was a new thing then, or even just playing a game of go-fish. He didn't know me, though, or what I liked to do. I didn't know him either, and I remember trying very hard just to seem like a good kid.

And so it went, for many years, this strange, awkward "relationship," where we didn't know one another, but felt obligated to spend time together. I now wonder, if my grandmother hadn't been alive, would there be any memories at all? As I got older, there were a few good ones: riding shotgun in my grandparents' RV as he drove (lightning exploded a tree in front of us and I thought Grams would have a stroke, but we were cracking up about Hubba Bubba soda), making a puppet out of a crutch, him teaching me to drive a stick shift. Mostly, we were two strangers, going along, making the best of it, both clinging to the one thing that tied us together: our love for Grams.

When I was 17, he remarried, and that really did change things for us. Suddenly he could give me what my parents couldn't: siblings. So for several years, I tried to shove myself into their family, photo bombing their memories, driving to their home on vacations and in the summer.

One time, though, I admitted this to my step-sister. We were walking past a store, and I said, "That's what I dress like in real life." It was the funky, not-quite-goth, steel-toed shoes with a broomstick skirt look that I patterned after Molly Ringwald's Pretty In Pink character.

She looked at my jeans and sweatshirt. "Really?"

I only presented the faux me to them, too. The straight As (that part was true), never talk back, would never dream of sneaking out of the house girl. The "I'll do your laundry and sort your Tupperware cupboard and drive your cat to the vet" kid. It wasn't their fault, really. I had been doing it my whole life, why quit now? How to quit now?

So, as an adult, I just kept going. Followed the rules, tried to be a people pleaser, tried to make him like me. After Emma, it got harder, because I began to care more about how he treated HER than me. I didn't want her to feel like she had to be good to be loved; I didn't want her to feel like less of a grandchild. I really began to see the distance between us then, but what to do?

Eric always said, "You have a dad, a great dad, who loves you and loves the kids. Why can't you just let this go?" And I wondered, why couldn't I? If he called me, why didn't I just let the machine get it? Why did I make efforts that seemed ignored, if not thrwarted? Actions speak louder than words, and there were so many actions that would have added up, if I had been willing to look. But he was my only tie to my grandmother, and that was reason enough to try to make an effort.

Then she was gone. Suddenly, the tone of his voice changed, or maybe it was always that way and now my ears could hear it. New memories popped up, or maybe they'd always been there and now my mind could see them. Lies were told and words were twisted, but maybe that's how it had always been. I had to let it go, but maybe I always should have.

So, what do I tell Emma about her birth family? That their love or attention shouldn't matter; that we are her REAL family? How do I tell her let the "blood" go, when I couldn't for forty years? What is it about blood, that you just can't let it go?