Today is day four on my way of recovery from the weekend. I think I am getting better. At least I have started to laugh a little bit about some of the stuff he did and said. A sort of incredulous laughter. Did he really do that, say that and that and that? Yes, he did.
But for the time being I am not answering my father's calls. Just a precaution. I don't want to treat him like shit or - following my sibling's advice - a rude 85 year old child. Or be his rude 56 year old daughter in return. This time, I will lick my wounds a bit longer and then do the grand magnanimous thing of forgive and forget. Anyway, that's the plan.
There is this tall, skinny man I remember, grating apple into our muesli in the warm kitchen of our crammed little flat. He is blowing a lock of his unruly blond hair from his forehead. We know he will tell us a funny story once he is finished and we can all start our breakfast.