After many months and countless calls, he stopped. Father didn’t just stop calling; he cut off contact with everyone. The tap had been shut off for good, and a wrench in very strong hands would be required to open Father up again.

Decades had passed, and Father built a new life for us all after Mother left. He became a single parent overnight and never complained about it. He provided the necessities and worked long hours, but he had no energy for anything else. Whenever Bea and I asked to play a game with him or go for a bike ride, he would brush us off and tell us to play with each other. At the time, we were hurt by Father’s rejection, but now I could understand the exhaustion that comes with being a parent, and I could imagine the mental energy needed to overcome the trauma of Mother leaving.

In that moment, watching Father standing over the stove, I saw the grey in his hair, the wrinkles around his eyes, and wondered which ones I was responsible for.

When he retired, Father followed his daughters across the country, perhaps to make up for the lost time in our youth when he wasn’t fully present with us. He chose to live in Ottawa, when I decided to firmly plant my feet there, and when Bea secured a job as a professor in the History Department at McGill University. He told everyone that it was a privilege to live in our nation’s capital, that it made him feel more Canadian. When Uncle Stephen passed away, Auntie Choo Neo had no reason to stay in Calgary and moved to Ottawa too. I realized that Father was not rooted out West but had tethered himself to us, wherever we were.

Over the years, Father never strayed far from Bea and me. I watched him cope and hoped that he had healed. Perhaps Father could now face the past.

“Dad, do you know where Mom is?”

Father looked at me like I had stabbed him in the back with the cleaver he had used to chop up the chicken.

“I can’t help but think of her. Now that I’m a mom, she’s been on my mind a lot.”

This explanation didn’t elicit any response from him. The silence was broken by the popping of the button on my rice cooker. I felt like my time was up and prodded Father with an imploring look. He dished up some rice and jiu gai onto a plate, brought it to me at the table, and told me to eat. I waited for Father to serve his own plate, but he didn’t. Instead, he took his apron off and shuffled to the front door. I watched in disbelief as he took his coat off the coat rack, slipped into his boots, and opened the door. I stood up, but before I could take a step, he was gone. He left without meeting his granddaughter.

Tears streamed down my face, landing on the edge of the plate Father had set before me. I watched as the drops flowed towards the centre, where the steaming rice lay.