The Ninth Step

Her alcoholic father was ready to make amends for the past. Was she ready to forgive him?

- JILL SUTTIE

THE PHONE RANG IN MY OFF-fice. I was preparing for an evening talk at the university where I worked.

My heart sank when I heard the caller’s voice. It was my father.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Dad asked.

“Sure, but I can’t talk long,” I said. This was my usual tactic with Dad: set a limit, keep it short.

“This won’t take long,” he said. “My therapist told me I should call each of my daughters and ask them a question. So I want to ask you.”

My heart sank even further. What could this be about? And why was he doing this to me right in the middle of my workday?

“Did you feel that I loved you as a child?” he said.

I was 34 years old, married and working at the University of San Francisco while earning a doctorate in psychology. I had been an independent adult for nearly 16 years. I’d even lived abroad. My husband, Don, and I planned to have children soon.

Yet my father still had the power to stop me in my tracks.

My father was an alcoholic and had been since my childhood. Growing up with him had been a nightmare for my mother, my two older sisters, and me. We lived in fear of his drunken rages. He berated and humiliated us, meting out harsh punishments seemingly at random. Even as an adult, I feared his abuse and suffered from the emotional scars he’d inflicted.

For years, I had lived in Santa Barbara, far away from my dad. But poor job opportunities and a broken relationship convinced me to move back to the Bay Area, nearer to my father, where I eventually found a job, met my husband and started graduate school.