my arm is sore from tennis, but my heart is sore from life

I recently discovered that before dropping me off at tennis practice six years ago, my father was chatting online with his worried mistress and told her, “if you and my daughter fell off a cliff, I would save you first.”

On Thursday, June 18th, 2009–exactly twenty eight days ago–my father left. He left my mom, he left me. He left our house, this city, this state, and this country, destroying our lives and devastating my family. He left quietly and unexpectedly with no indication, save two plain white envelopes on the empty kitchen table. One was for me and the other for my poor mother, who hid both in attempt to protect me the truth…the ugly,unfortunate truth that the man I knew as “daddy” was gone.

For two days I was consumed with pain that started in my heart and managed to diffuse itself to every inch of my body. Before climbing into bed with my mom that Thursday night (I’ve been sleeping with her ever since), I stopped by my room to pick up my teddy bear and noticed a piece of computer paper lying on my pillow. On it, written in purple ink, was the last bit of communication from my father: “I love you baby!! -Daddy.” At first, I was overwhelmed with grief, love, and longing for him–the sight of that precious piece of paper elicited streams of tears from my already swollen eyes. But days later as more of the unwanted soap opera was revealed, those initial feelings were replaced by anger, hatred, and disbelief. Seriously? A piece of computer paper? That’s the best he can do? Coward.

The night before he left, our suburban family of three went to exercise at our club about twenty minutes away. On the way back home, I excitedly asked my dad what his favorite food was since I planned on cooking him dinner that Sunday for Father’s Day. My parents were taken aback because I usually never attempt to cook, especially after a couple unfortunate ventures involving cookies and fire, chicken and fire, etc. My dad played along beautifully, with the expertise of a seasoned Academy Award winner. Nothing seemed abnormal. We arrived home around 10:00pm, which meant bedtime for me since it was my first week at work and I needed rest to be punctual and alert for the next day. No extra hug and kiss good-night…or good-bye.

I woke up the next morning and rushed to get ready for work. I remember peeking into my parents’ bedroom and seeing him fast asleep, sprawled out on the bed. He was probably wide awake, waiting for the sound of the garage door closing so he could execute his meticulous plan. Bastard. Sometimes I wonder what was going on in his head during those final moments, or even in those final days. How was he able to look at us? How was he able to laugh and smile, knowing full well that by Thursday afternoon he would leave his family and never look back. But answering those questions and piecing together his last morning in our house makes me sick to my stomach. I find the thought of him secretly packing his things, feigning sleep, waiting for an empty house, calling a taxi, looking around the house one last time and saying goodbye to my dog so incredibly sickening. What kind of man can do that? It is repulsive and embarrassing to me that I share his last name.

He had an affair. For at least eight years. Eight years. That’s all of junior high and high school–many missed tennis matches, viola lessons, piano recitals, orchestra concerts, speech and debate tournaments, parent-teacher conferences, hospital visits, doctor’s appointments, award ceremonies. My father managed the ‘campus’ in our hometown and the campus in China so whenever his absence was questioned, I’d proudly reply, “He’s on a business trip in China.” Now that iota of pride has turned into a cohering mass of utter disgust. All the while he was “on business in China,” he had the added bonus of fucking a co-worker on the side.

Her name is Christine Shi. Her chinese name is Shih Dan. She has a facebook. She works (worked?) for Rockwell Automation, and I am going to find her. Probably not now, but it is one of my lifetime goals to meet (beat?) the woman who ruined my family, perhaps just to gain an American passport. My dad wined and dined her at the finest restaurants in the largest cities in China. He bought her an apartment, paid for two abortions, and took her on as his protege, training and mentoring her in business practices and promoting her to high positions within the office. My father never gave me any interview tips, any training or guidance on how the business world works, nada. He took better care of her than he did of me.

But you know what? In order for “the man I knew as Daddy to be gone,” he had to have been here in the first place. Was he? Sure, he provided “things.” He bought me the latest electronics, he helped me out with computer problems, he bought me jewelry, coats, he mowed the lawn, cooked occasionally. Emotional support? None. A relationship deeper than goods and services? None. This I will get into in another post, because it will take me another thousand words to explain how I have fended for myself for the majority of my life.

So Daddy, I want you to know this. Go ahead and save your mistress and your muse if she and I both fell off a cliff. I don’t need you. You were never in any position to “save” me to begin with. And let me tell you that your daughter isn’t dumb, weak, or unprepared enough to fall off no damn cliff anyways without a parachute on my back, a helicopter waiting for me, and a handgun to protect me from pathetic jealous homewreckers like Christine (Shih Dan) Shi that are abject, insecure and insignificant enough to ask a father to choose between his kid and herself.

Hell, I ain’t gunna fall off. I will jump off that cliff. And I dare you, dear Daddy, to violate the sacredness of your marriage and the blood connection with your child once again. I’m ready. Are you?