I got tired of being your daughter

I wrote to my daughter Claudia, her old sister, asking her how much money I had given her when she turned thirty. Wisely, Claudia, as a good conflict expert lawyer, sniffed a conflict and refrained from answering me.

Once the amount that I would transfer to my itinerant daughter Patricia was decided, I reluctantly passed through the bank to three in the afternoon, when I return to life and I remember my name, but there were so many people making a unfortunate, complaining row, that I refused to wait patiently and, making a disgust, I left, obfuscated. I am not good to make queues, I confess impatiently and conceited.

Overwhelmed by the bank’s tails, I wrote to Patricia, asking for the address of his apartment in New York to send him by physical mail, the old one, a check with the anticipated gift for his birthday, a donation that would have to serve him as a per diem or travel bag in his European journey. To my surprise, Patricia responded by saying that she was not in New York and, as if she had gone to hiding, I preferred not to tell me her address. Not only did he avoid giving me the signs of his home, he didn’t want to tell me where he was. I felt none. I thought: even if you are traveling, you could give me your address and so, when you return home, you find my check in the mail. But I didn’t tell him.

Days later, when confirming that I had not turned the bank transfer required by her, although without specifying the exact amount she wanted, Patricia sent me a rough, dry email, saying that she had tired of being my daughter, that having a good relationship with me supposed her an effort and that I did not strive in any way to get along with her. He ended up saying that, judging by my behavior, she was not one of my priorities.

I was worried, after reading your email. I wondered: Is it true that I am not a hard -harded father? Is it true that Patricia strives to be my daughter and I don’t effort me to be her father? Are you right to tell me that it is not one of my priorities? What then is my priority, or what are my priorities?

I replied honestly: turned sixty, my priority is to remain alive. That’s why my priority is to sleep well, eat well, live well. Then I have another priority, which is writing. If I don’t write, I don’t live well, and if I don’t live well, I don’t sleep well. So, let’s be honest, my priority is to take care of my best voice, my best record, my quieter and judicious identity. Then, of course, there are the women of my life: my wife, my daughters, my mother. But I could not love them properly, if I did not take care of myself with unwavering affection and the serene trust I deserve.

Appeared, I wrote an email to Patricia, telling him that his words were unfair and indelified. I explained that I had not been able to send him the anticipated gift for his birthday because the bank used to be overflowed with people and I am not good to wait half an hour without complaining. I told her that that’s why I had wanted to dispatch a check by physical mail, the old one, but she had refused to give me her signs. I also told him that I have never asked him to make the least effort for me and that is why it seemed inappropriate to me to tell me that she sacrificed himself for being my daughter and I did not care in being her father.

I did not mean, because it seemed inevanting, ordinary, in bad taste, that I have paid everything, absolutely everything, not only the onerous expenses of their education in private schools and universities, but also those of their luxury trucks, their frequent trips and their deserved fun. I did not want to remind him that, when his older sister Claudia decided to study a second university career, I kept sending Patricia a monthly money equivalent to that which Claudia received, so as not to make differences between them. That is to say that I paid two races for Claudia and two more for Patricia, although the latter studied only one and the other was a donation to the wide background of his happiness. I did not mean that all those remittances of money, dispatched promptly in the last twelve years, could qualify as an effort on my part, or at least a pecuniary effort, because I had never felt it as an eagerness, a effort or a boldness, but as a pleasant and unscapable responsibility.

Yes I dared to remind Patricia that, in recent times, she had paid her trips to the city of dust and fog so that she would spend the holidays with her mother who does not love me much, already certain Caribbean islands where she knows how to be happy with her boyfriend who apparently wants me, and the close and remote destinations that she intended to visit, traveling every month with the brivers and the illusion of the young people who wish to conquer them Beauties of the world. I confess that I am the travel agent of my daughters and I buy them all the tickets that ask me and I do not complain because it is a silly and lowercase way to tell them how much I love them. That is why I told Patricia that it was indelicated that she told me to strive for me and I do not effort me, when love must flow without efforts.

After that exchange of emails more or less, I stayed with the bitter feeling that my daughter Patricia had disappointed me because she had not sent her crematistic gift as soon as she expected. Afflicted because of the fault, I thought about running to the bank, enduring the tail and sending the money, but then I fant because it seemed to me that, when writing in a hostile tone, Patricia had lost the right or grace to receive her birthday gift three months before she was her birthday.

Meanwhile, my daughter Claudia, who at the end of August will turn thirty -two, finally wrote me, not to remind me how much I give her to fulfill thirty, as I had asked her, but to tell me that she will come soon to this city, to the party of a friend of her who is pregnant. I received the news with joy and promised him that he would send him the air ticket without delay. I appreciated that Claudia sent greetings to my wife and remember that next week my youngest daughter will turn fourteen. Of course, I did not tell him that his sister Patricia and I had fired emails that seemed most long -range explosive drones.

My wife, always attentive to the details, showed me photos of Patricia in Paris, photos that my daughter had uploaded to her accounts. Luckily, it seemed happy. I will send you a good gift when I turn thirty, I told myself. Now Patricia hurried me and scolded me and it was not a good time to settle the transaction. Because when he passed through the bank around three in the afternoon, that looked like a local of leagues and alternins, the dressing room of a stadium, the chapel of a temple, the boarding room of an airport, that is to say a hotbed, a swarm, a tumult, a barahund, a fucking behetry. Of course, I could have the bank’s application to send monies without going through the banking agency, but my wife prefers not to have it because every day I would be giving money to someone, that is the reputation of Manirroto that I have at home.

Days later, Patricia’s boyfriend wrote to me a beautiful email in English, telling me how much I loved my daughter and how much she loved me and suggesting that I went to Paris to meet with both of them and sign the peace. I have the best opinion of my daughter’s boyfriend. He is a good man with an excellent heart and knows how to make my daughter Patricia happy. They have been together for more than a decade, they met at the University, in New York, and are inseparable. I replied in my friendliest registry, telling him that this year, for medical reasons, I am not in a position to go to Europe, and promising that we will see each other soon in New York, to celebrate his thirty years in May and the thirties that, weeks later, he will fulfill the beautiful Patricia, and committing to pay the parties of both, without any effort for my part.