That's not what I want

I've been expecting it for a while. That discussion.

"I haven't heard from you in a while. You could call more often." He suggests.

"Dad, you could call me more often, too. A relationship is supposed to be a two way street. I call you more often than you call me. I've done so for the last 10 years, and I've got the phone records to prove it." I respond.

"That isn't how it works. You call me."

"It's better for you to keep that rule intact than to have a relationship with your son?"

"You need to understand that, later in life you may regret that. Let's just say that certain things someone in your position may feel entitled to might not be there when the time comes."

"Is that what you think I want? Why would you think that? Since college I have never asked you for money-- not even to help pay for medical school. That's 11 years without asking for a cent. I don't visit you. I call you ten times a year to remind you that you have a perfectly good son that you refuse to engage in a meaningful relationship, and to remind me that I do more than you do in attempting to keep our relationship alive. Despite this, you think that I want your material possesions? I don't even know what your possesions are. I don't know what you have in your house, your bank, your mind, or your heart. I don't know what you have that you care about; that you hold special. I know it isn't me. The idea that after you pass I will want your things or your money is simply wrong. I don't know what your things are. I don't have your money, and clearly I don't care to 'work' towards getting it."

The words came out, but it was useless. Shortly after "Is", the mind stopped listening. A crystal glass swirled rocks of ice around some Jack Daniels, only barely mixed with some diet coke. The noise continued for a while, and then he replies softly, and slowly "Well, it's up to you." The tone of his voice is different this time, and it's disturbing, and he knows it-- that's the point. It's not the voice he uses regularly-- not the typical drunk swagger. It's the old voice. The voice of the father who has been gone since 1997. The current imposter is using the old voice as an impersonation-- an impersonation of someone he once was, but clearly no longer is.

The anger builds inside of me, as the imposter rubs salt in the wound of losing someone cared for. "Well, it's up to you, too." I reply.

The only thing I'm sure I'll have in the future is the same thing I have now: an unsatisfactory relationship with my father.