Lunch with my Dad, the Epilogue

A person really wants to believe the people they love aren't about to hurt them, even when she knows they will.

My first clue should have been when he asked me to lunch, but it wasn't. I didn't want to believe he always had an ulterior motive, especially when he doing something nice. I managed to stave off the suspicion until he mentioned the restaurant where we were headed was quiet. Even still, in a split second I convinced myself otherwise. He was just getting older and didn't like noisy places. (This has not been true of my father a day in his life, probably no one knows that better than me. It is simply astounding what I can convince myself of with very little effort.) The second clue was when he wouldn't talk about work. At that point, the ominous feeling that this lunch wasn't going to end well wouldn't leave. But it would be ignored. I wanted to believe my dad was honestly concerned, I desperately needed too. He ruined it, he turned a perfectly good lunch and my blind faith in the father I truly admire.

We don't want to believe our loved ones are capable of such premeditated infliction. If we did, we would be cynical and unable to enjoy or even notice the moments when there are no agendas. And we do believe there are moments without pretense, even if we've never seen them. We hope and we believe, because we love them.