"Daddy's little girl" is a term that we hear often. I never understood its full meaning until I witnessed the relationship between my husband and our daughter. The bond between a father and daughter is very strong and that is why when that bond breaks, the pain leaves profound scars. I have attended a lot of Emmaus retreats and I have seen first hand how many women are carrying the burden of their broken relationships with their fathers. We may have issues with our mothers but because deep inside we always long to be "daddy's little girl," if there is a fissure in the relationship with our fathers, that pain tends to hurt twice as much.
A long time ago, I was also "daddy's little girl." I clearly remember the Sundays that I would spend with my dad. He would pick me up in the morning and we would either go to "El Vedado," where his aunt and uncle owned a school, or we would go to the beach or to the park or to walk along "El Malecon." I cherished those memories, especially after I left Cuba. Little did I know, on that November day, that I would not see my father again for 25 years.
During the first four years that I lived in Spain, I received monthly letters from my dad. I longed for those letters. They filled the hole that I had in my heart. Sometimes the letters would come with pictures of my two little brothers. I loved to see the faces of those two little boys I barely knew but whom I cared for deeply. And then one day, when I was eleven years old, I received a letter that broke my heart. The Cuban government had threatened my father and he could not write to me anymore. He told me that the biggest mistake of his life was allowing me to leave Cuba. Even though I was just a little girl, I felt betrayed. In my mind, he was choosing the government over me. I was angry, I was hurt and I let him know, in no uncertain terms, how I felt. In the last letter that I wrote to him, I told him that allowing me to leave Cuba was the best decision he had made because I lived in freedom, while he lived under the oppression of a government that could dictate to him even something as simple as writing a letter to his only daughter.
I probably would have wiped him from my heart, but my paternal grandmother made sure that I didn't. She took off where he left off. She began to write to me. She kept sending me pictures of my brothers. She kept open the lines of communication between our two distant families. She made sure that the fissure in our relationship would not be broken beyond repair. When her hand became old and frail, and she could no longer write to me, she made sure that my dad continued to write to me in her name. I knew it was my dad because I recognized his handwriting, but he never signed the letters.
I wrote back to my grandmother but I had erected a huge wall around my heart against my father. I wanted to protect my heart. I wanted to make sure I would never feel the pain of betrayal again. And then, 20 years after he stopped writing me, I received a letter from him. By that time, my grandmother had died, and I was a wife and mother with two small children. In the letter, he told me that he wanted to come and visit me. The decision was up to me. By this time, people from Cuba could come to visit their relatives in the United States as long as the US relative extended an invitation, the US relative paid all the expenses, and both the US and the Cuban governments gave their permission. The ball was on my side of the court. I could allow the pain of twenty years to dictate my decision or I could open a small door in the wall of my heart. I chose the latter.
Twenty-five years after I waved good-bye to my dad at the airport in Havana, I embraced him at the airport in Miami. To say that I was nervous is an understatement. When I saw him emerge from the terminal gate, I realized this was not the dad that I remembered. The young, tall, and strong hero from my childhood days had been replaced by an older version who seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He no longer looked tall and invincible. He looked tired and frail. My heart went out to him and I allowed him to hug me. I knew he had suffered more than I had, and yet, I still was not ready to tear down the wall around my heart.
He spent a month with us. I felt that he wanted to pick up where we left off, but I was no longer that 7-year-old girl that kissed the ground he walked on. I was no longer daddy's little girl. Every time he tried to hold my hand, I cringed. Every time he tried to talk to me about the past, I would change the subject. I made sure I was always surrounded with people. I was terrified of being alone with him. As long as I kept my heart guarded, I would be fine. A few days before he returned to Cuba, I took my kids to the park and he came along. I watched as he pushed Rafi and Chabeli on the swings, and I thought to myself, this is good. He is getting to know his grandchildren and they are getting to know their grandfather.
Then, he came and sat by my side on the bench, and he began to talk. He told me how the Cuban government had never forgiven him for signing off the permission slip that allowed my mother to take me out of Cuba. He told me how they threatened him about losing his job if he didn't cut off all ties with me. He told me how difficult it had been for him to write that fateful letter, and how for years, his biggest regret had been to allow me to leave Cuba. I allowed him to talk but I didn't say a word. My heart had been frozen within the walls of bitterness.
And then the day came when we had to say good-bye for the second time. This time was very different from that other good-bye, twenty-five years earlier. This time I was very much aware that this might be the last time that I would see him. I had no intentions of going to Cuba, and after treating him so coldly, I doubted he would want to come to visit us again. I hugged him good-bye, but I didn't shed a tear. I knew he was broken with pain, but I was incapable of saying a word of comfort to him. The airport was packed with family and friends that had come to say good-bye, for which I was grateful. In that ocean of people, I could hide behind the wall I had erected.
We left the airport in silence, well, except for the kids that were two chatterboxes full of questions: "When is abuelo coming to visit us again?" "Can we go to Cuba to visit him?" I had no answers. All I had was a knot in my heart. And that night, the walls that I had been erecting around my heart for over twenty years came tumbling down in a rush of tears. All the pain that I had securely hidden within came pouring out with only my hubby as witness. "What have I done?" I asked to no one in particular. "I sent him back without making amends." I could have extended his visit for at least another month. He had hinted various times that one of my brothers told him not to return. But I chose to close my ears as well as my heart, and now, it was too late. God had given me a great opportunity for reconciliation and I literally threw it out the door. We were on the Easter season and I did not show my father any sign of affection. And now he was gone.
But God had a bigger plan. It actually turned out that sending him back was the best decision I made, as I will share in a future reflection. Two years later my father moved permanently to Miami. God gave me a second chance at a full reconciliation. On this Easter Sunday, I can honestly say that my heart holds no bitterness whatsoever towards my father. He had two small boys that he had to feed, two elderly parents to care for and he had to make a tough choice. A choice that cost him a lot more than it cost me. When I hear daily on the news, everything that is happening now with Cuba, and the opinions from both sides of the gulf, I can honestly say that bridging that 50-year gap will not be easy, but it's not impossible. I made the decision to cross the bridge and remove 25 years of pain and bitterness from my heart. And I can walk a lot lighter because of it.
Every woman, deep inside, longs to be "daddy's little girl." If you still have the blessing of having your father alive, and your relationship is broken because of something that happened in the past, mend fences before it's too late. It's time to repair those broken bonds. And even though you may not hold hands the way you once did, you will feel much better once you remove all those old resentments from your heart. If he is no longer present on this earth, write him a letter or send him a prayer. Resentment weights too much, and it affects the person that carries it around much more than it hurts the other person. Find it deep within your heart to forgive. You will become a better person because of it and you will feel much lighter.
God bless you and have a blessed Easter!!!
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