The Good Daughter

I drove my car off the highway and into the parking lot of the McDonalds that occupied the rest area. It was the middle of winter, and I shuddered to think how anyone could survive without heat. In the passenger seat next to me sat three heavy blankets and a thermos of hot soup.

I drove halfway around the dark parking lot before I finally spotted his car. It wasn't hard; not too many people were eating at McDonalds at 1:30 in the morning. I parked next to his beat up car and got out. He was not expecting me. I could see through the window that he was dozing, and he was also shivering. Not wanting to startle him, I knocked gently on the window until he opened his eyes and saw me.

Surprised, he quickly opened the door and let me in. It wasn't much warmer inside the car than outside. We stared at each other. Finally, he spoke,

"What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?" he asked.

"Mary told me" I replied. "I brought you some blankets and hot soup. I just thought it might help a little."

I watched him pull the blankets around him and as he started to eat the soup, I wondered why I had driven at 1:30 on a winter morning to bring provisions to a man I detested, father of mine or not. This is the man who was never there, who never called on birthdays, who left your mother in poverty, I thought, and now you are wasting your time helping him.

It was true. Their marriage was horrible. When he left, he took everything and my mother had to fend her herself. Now that the tables were turned, now that he was the one who was homeless and in poverty, I should be rejoicing. But no; my damn little conscious had to get in the way. He's your father, it would say to me, how can you sleep knowing your father is homeless and out in the cold? So that was the only reason I was here; because this hateful man, whom I wished many times would choke to death on his own alcohol-induced vomit, was part of my biological makeup. According to society, that made him my "father," and good daughters do not let their fathers freeze on a winter night.

I couldn't bring myself to look at him any longer and instead studied the big golden arches of the McDonalds sign. He vainly tried to make conversation; he asked about school and my boyfriend. I ignored him. More silence followed.

When it was apparent that he had finished his soup, I held out my hand for the thermos. As he handed it to me, our eyes briefly met. We had the same eyes, and for a minute I knew that he saw the same hurt and confusion in my eyes that I saw in his. For a moment, we were missing dream we both once had; his of teaching his daughter how to walk and drive, mine of having a father to talk to and walk me down the aisle when it was time to get married. Then I lowered my glance and looked away, and the dream was gone; we were back in reality, and reality was that I could never see a father in him, no matter how hard I tried, and he could never truly call me a daughter. The rift between us was too great, and no matter how much society dictates that all good daughters love their fathers, I was not a good daughter, and I did not love my father.

I opened the car door and got out. As I walked to my car, I heard him get out of his and call my name. I turned and faced him. After an awkward moment of hesitation, he finally spoke.

"Hey, maybe once I get on my feet again, maybe we can hang out and stuff...get to know each other a little more" he said.

I smiled "Sure, sounds good" I replied, yet I knew that it would never happen.

When I got home and crawled into my nice warm bed, I again chastised myself to taking the effort and time to help the one man I detested in the world. Yet as I mentally gave myself a lecture, I knew that I would continue to watch the weather channel every day, and that when the next cold snap came along, I would once again load up that thermos and take it to him in an attempt to gain some type of relationship with him.

After all, good daughters don't let their fathers freeze on a winter night.