He didn’t reply to any of these messages. Then I offered to pick a place and make the booking. Still no reply. It’s mid-afternoon now and we have no plan, no restaurant, no time. I need to know where I’m going, figure out how I’m going to get there, what I’m going to wear, look at the menu online ahead of time and decide what I will eat. I imagine this is what dating is like when you’re an adult. Or maybe even now, as a semi-adult. Just desperate hopeful text messages, sent out into the ether, and nothing. Being ghosted by your own father is surely worse than being ghosted by a date.

I text Lauren, who replies with, ‘I told you not to do this dinner,’ and ‘It’s Dad, none of this is surprising.’ Which is not helpful, but it’s also soothing—that she knows, that someone knows. I remain stubbornly hopeful.

Lauren and I talk about Dad, but only in small ways, making fun of him, gently nudging against our issues, but never really delving into it all in a meaningful way. Lauren doesn’t enjoy delving into things as a general rule. But sometimes I want her to, sometimes I wish we could share every memory, every screwed-up thing, get it all out and recorded and signed off on, stamped and official, into the Dad files, and then we put it away, close the book on it, maybe start a new chapter.