My dad only started calling me this year. I went five years without speaking to him at all after I sent police to his doorstep when he faked a suicide attempt for attention. Eventually he forgot that he was angry at me and started calling me again. He just likes to hear his voice but it’s okay because sometimes it’s a nice voice to listen to.
There are parts of me that really dislike him but I can’t find it in myself to hate him like my sister does. He is, undoubtedly, one of the worst human beings that I've ever had the displeasure of knowing but he’s just this fucked up little child at heart. I can’t help but pity. I pity him because he isn't part of our family. I pity him because he doesn't know my nephew. I pity him because he lost the absolute best and most loving family. He isn't strong enough.
One time he asked my brother and I if something positive came out of his alcoholism. He wanted validation that he did something right. Reinforcement that he had a hand in raising us. I told him yes. Yes, dad. You taught me what not to be. My brother agreed.
Stay hydrated, pop.